Little Rock Getaway

Fiction Friday: It's a little long. Forgive. Read it in segments if you wish. My little attempt at dark humor.

Pistols in the Pantry

By Jimmie von Tungeln

To his surprise, Ted Mellford found a pistol in the pantry one morning when he went looking for a can of sauerkraut. The pistol lay there, neither mocking nor challenging, just claiming its space with the calm certitude of a half-snoozing watchdog. Ted stared at it with his head cocked to the side for a few seconds. Then he leaned over and examined it with an uncharacteristic interest, but not daring to touch it. He stood upright and looked around as if fearing that someone had observed his discovery. This didn’t seem right.

It was Sunday and he was in the house alone. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been looking for sauerkraut for Marva didn’t allow it. “Too much salt,” she said. In fact, he had stifled more than once a simmering belief that she only kept it around to torment him. Today he planned to sneak it onto a hot dog and dare her to complain—time to claim his rights.

The will to challenge evaporated the pistol appeared between the kidney beans and a bag of rice. The brass rims of cartridges glistened in the cylinder. It was loaded and ready, no doubt. Its smug blue barrel spread an antiseptic chill over the entire pantry. Pretty strange

He was still puzzling over it when Marva came home. She had been to a flea market and carried an old sewing machine that lacked a motor and needle assembly. He was reading the morning paper and beginning his second hot dog. No sauerkraut—just mustard and relish.

“Won’t take much to get this running,” she said as she plopped the machine onto the table next to his plate. Dust rolled across his food and a worn electric cable fell into his lap.

He looked up and considered to himself that there must be at least a dozen sewing machines in various places around the house and none had ever been made to work. They loitered around the house like booby traps in a rice field, along with the other prizes from hundreds of piratical junking expeditions, ever ready to do damage to his careless feet. He said, “I noticed that you have a pistol in the pantry.”

“You noticed, huh?” She removed his plate without asking and placed it in the sink. Soapy water ebbed around the unfinished hot dog as he watched without comment. She grabbed a towel from the counter and spread it under the machine as if it were a baby to be diapered. “My grandmother had one just like it.”

“The pistol?”

“No, this machine. It’s a Singer Model 66. They quit making these in the thirties.”

“Why do you have a pistol in the pantry?” He tried not to sound accusing or critical, just curious. It was too early in the day for a confrontation.

She looked at him signaling that the answer was obvious and anyone who would ask it a fool. She glanced toward the pantry and turned back to him as she continued to clean the sewing machine.

“Rapid response,” she said.

“I see.” He continued to read the paper. Another man in another place might have pressed for more detail but he had discovered long ago that pressing for details was counterproductive. This might be particularly true with firearms around. If Marva had a pistol in the pantry, she must have a reason.

The issue didn’t occupy him long, for his life was about to take one of those turns that sends a person spinning at a tangent to the curve of life. It can happen so quickly, in fact, that it doesn’t leave one as much damaged as amazed. As Ted was to tell people later, “I never took much to change anyway but this just beat all.”

It started the next day. He was thinking about the pantry while he worked on a set of divorce papers for one of his clients. His law partner, Bobby Hinson, opened Ted’s office door without knocking and stepped in, red of face and trying to look calm. “I thought you were still out so I took a call for you,” he said. He took a deep breath, then told Ted to drop his work and get downtown, fast. He had to see about his daddy. Bobby took another breath. “The Police Department called and said he just shot a man.”

“He what?”

“Shot a man was what they said. He gave them your telephone number here and they just called.”

Ted looked at him and asked again, “He what?”

“You want me to drive you?”

“Where?” Ted looked beyond Bobby and blinked.

“They have him at the main Police Station. I told them you would be right there.”

Bobby motioned toward the door and Ted rose. He nearly stumbled over his chair as he turned. Somehow he managed to grab his coat and follow Bobby outside into the parking lot.

Ted functioned, but only with Bobby’s help. His whole being—body, mind, and senses—competed dumbly with bells, stars, whistles and shrieks until they reached downtown and were escorted to the holding area. Bobby led him by his arm and Ted’s head settled when he saw his dad sitting on a concrete bed inside a cell.

“I’ll wait outside,” Bobby said.

His dad saw Ted as he entered the room and smiled. “Fun’s over, son,” he said. An officer told him to be quiet.

“Screw you, Clint Eastwood,” his dad said.

Ted looked at his dad first and turned to the officer. He tried to sound attorney-like. He had been through this with clients, hadn’t he? To be successful, you developed your “attorney’s voice,” harsh, blunt, and condescending. He thought he could pull it off but, when he finally found his voice and responded, it sounded more like whispering.

“What happened?”

“Shut up and bail me out. I want to go home,” his dad said. He yelled it across the room with an excess of authority.

“Let’s go into the next room and I’ll tell you all about it said the officer.

Ted sat in a metal folding chair in the next office while the officer related the events of the day. The shooting occurred at the Main Post Office on Fourth Street. He—Ted’s dad—pulled into the drive-through deposit lane to mail something. Only he didn’t mail it. Instead he sat in his car with his head slumped on his chest, not appearing to move. Several cars lined up behind him and one had honked a couple of times, so some workers in the office building across the street and a jogger had stopped to watch. They saw the whole thing.

The driver in the car behind him—not the one who had honked, incidentally—stepped out of his car and approached the window, as if to see if the old man was sick or something. The jogger heard Ted’s dad yell “Leave me alone.” It turned out that he was in the process of writing whatever he was going to mail as he blocked the drive.

Things happened pretty quickly, but the result was that words were exchanged and Ted’s dad produced a large-bore pistol and fired once, putting, as one witness observed, “A rather sizeable hole through the intruder’s midsection.” He hit the ground, jerked a couple of times, and died.

Ted stared at a calendar on a wall across the room. It advertised the local bus company. Above the month was a photograph of a family waving to a smiling father who carried a briefcase in one hand and a raincoat across the other arm. He was stepping on a bus, obviously headed for work. He thought about Marva and mumbled something.

“Sir?” the officer said. Ted looked away from the calendar and at the deputy.

“My dad?”

“Sir?”

“It was my dad for sure?” He stopped. His head filled with sounds again. He waited until they left and then asked the officer, “It was my dad who shot the man, for sure?”

“Oh yes sir,” the officer said. “A number of people saw it all and your dad was still in the car with the pistol beside him when the police arrived. It all happened so fast that we had it cleaned up and your father here before the TV stations got wind of it. Of course we took the body to the morgue.” The officer stopped. His arms lay on the desk in front of him and his hands clasped one another with the fingers interlocked. He flexed the fingers outward twice, watching them intently. He looked back at Ted. Ted sensed that he was weighing the wisdom of relating the rest. He spoke in friendly voice.

“Want to know the oddest part?” Before Ted could answer he said, “He was still writing the letter. It was to his sister.”

Ted blinked and then said in a wheezing voice, “He doesn’t have a sister.”

The officer didn’t say anything.

Ted also remained silent. The two men sat facing one another until the sounds started in his head again. “What next?” he asked.

“We’ll have to arraign him. There won’t be any bail. He’ll stay here for quite awhile.”

Ted’s head cleared. The sounds stopped. “You’ll keep him here?”

“Why sure,” the officer said. “You don’t think we would let him go home, do you?”

“I don’t have to do anything with him?”

“Well, we could let you talk to him for a minute. I mean, you being an attorney and all. I’m sure you want to advise him.”

Ted answered and his answer rang as decisive around the concrete block walls of the room. “No,” he said. “You get him a PD and tell him I had to see to his affairs.” He rose.

“You don’t want to talk to him?”

“Tomorrow maybe,” Ted said.

In the lobby, he told Bobby what had happened. While they were talking, a sergeant approached and handed him a set of keys. His dad’s car was parked on the street by the Post Office and they wouldn’t need it anymore. Would Ted dispose of it?

“Come on,” Bobby said. “I’ll take you over there.”

They drove in silence at first. In addition to the sounds, images fought for possession of Ted’s mind. Alternating sounds and scenes bounced like hail hitting the ground in a summer storm. Through the tumult, he turned to Bobby and worked at framing a question. He thought for a moment and turned look at the scenery silently gliding by as Bobby negotiated the downtown traffic to Fourth Street. Finally, he spoke, as much to the window as to Bobby.

“Did your high school offer a senior trip?” he asked.

“A senior trip?”

“You know, where the whole class goes somewhere.”

Bobby turned his eyes from the traffic and eyed Ted.

“Washington.”

Ted seemed not to understand. He knitted his brow and looked at Bobby.

“Washington?”

“Our senior class went to Washington, D.C.” He looked at Ted again. “Why do you ask?”

“Our class went to San Antonio.”

“Did you have fun?”

“I didn’t get to go.”

“Why not?”

“Dad needed me to help in the store. Or so he said.”

Ted was silent for a couple of minutes. After that he turned to Bobby.

“Your dad was fairly normal, wasn’t he?” he asked his partner.

“Pretty much,” Bobby said. “World War Two was probably the high point of his life. Spent the rest of it farming or thinking about farming—except for telling stories around the supper table.”

“Did he ever tell you he wished you hadn’t been born?”

“Not that I remember,” Bobby said, then added, “I imagine he did a few times though.”

“Yes, I guess. Oh by the way, could you finish the Daltons’ divorce papers? I haven’t been able to get them to reconcile or agree on anything.”

“Sure,” Bobby said. He drove on without talking. Then he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel three times. “Ted,” he said, “This isn’t a good time to offer advice, but job ain’t to reconcile the Daltons. It’s to represent Fred Dalton in a divorce proceeding. You can only represent one side and Fred is the one paying us.”

Ted didn’t answer right away. Talking business kept the sounds from his head. He looked again at the passing scenery. A moment later, he said, “I guess I just see both sides of the story.”

“I’m older than you are and I can tell you that can backfire.” He looked at Ted and determined that he was listening. “Once when I was a prosecutor, there were judges that would do everything in their power to force a plea.”

Ted looked at him. “Isn’t that what they are supposed to do?”

“It is indeed,” Bobby said. “But there are times when the ego gets involved and then the peacemaker just ends up pissing everyone off.”

Ted stared past him at the landscape again.

“And remember, egos always sneak into divorce cases.”

“I’ll remember,” Ted said.

“I’ll finish this one up for you. God knows you’re going to be preoccupied. But next time, try just seeing our client’s side. If you’re good at it, at least one side will be happy.”

“Next time,” Ted said.

Bobby pulled along the curb, behind the car—Ted’s dad’s—that had been moved from in front of the postal boxes. Ted managed not to look back at the scene of the crime but stared ahead at the car as if it were the victim.

“Are you going to need some help?” Bobby asked.

“Ted didn’t move. He just said, “No, my life may be a little simpler now.”

“How so?”

Ted ignored the question and looked at the keys in his hand. In addition to the car keys, there were several others that Ted knew to be various keys to locks the old man kept on boxes stored around his apartment. And of course there was the key to his apartment in the Shady Creek Retirement Home. They dangled from a ring along with a metal disk advertising Gulf Shores, Alabama. Ted had given it to him.

Ted looked at his partner. “Your dad died young, didn’t he?”

“Fairly so. Alzheimer’s when he was 70.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Every day of my life,” Bobby said.

“I see,” Ted said. “I guess I better be going.”

“You take care now,” Bobby said. “And call me if you need anything.”

“I will.” Ted said and he swung open the car door to leave. “Just tell everyone that I’ll be back in a few days.”

Ted decided to drive his dad’s car home and pick his up later. It would cause a scene but there were many scenes to come anyway. One extra wouldn’t matter. On the way, he practiced telling Marva the story. He had to do it well but the best way to do it kept edging away from him. He saw his imagination as a hand trying to stroke a skittish pet: lots of activity with no results. He saw that he was almost home.

Their house was at the end of a long winding road and there was a final dogleg turn that led to their drive. The result was that his house was hidden from the view of any traffic until the last second. His dad had built it in this spot because he didn’t like to be around people but needed to be in the city. Marva felt the same, so she had insisted they buy it from the old man when it became too much for him to manage. Ted gave in, but he had always felt conflicted by living in such seclusion in the middle of large city.

He considered stopping here and practicing his story. He had done it many times before—seeking out the soft words that could postpone a scene or maybe avoid it altogether. This time, though, the appropriate story evaded him, so he drove on. He still hadn’t settled on it by the time he pulled into his driveway.

Marva opened the front door of the house as he was getting out of the car and waited for him on the porch. One look and he knew that she knew already.

“The old bastard finally did it, didn’t he?” she said, as he walked toward her.

“Jesus,” Ted said, “How did you find out?”

“That’s for me to know. Come on in and rest a spell.”

Ted followed her in.

She turned as they reached the kitchen. “I got to feed the dogs, so make yourself something to eat. You can tell me all about it when I get back,” she said.

“Jesus,” Ted said. He pulled off his jacket and draped it across a chair. He considered his options for a meal, but knew right away that he would avoid the pantry. He didn’t want contact with a pistol. Not today or any other day. What business had a peacemaker with a pistol, anyway?

He found a package of salami and some bread and sat down to make a sandwich. He thought about the old man and how they would never share another meal together. The thought wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Their meals together had never gone that well. They had become altogether unsettling over the last four or five years, particularly if Marva happened to be present.

He laid the sandwich on a plate and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator. What else would change? Sunday afternoons at the retirement home would change to Sunday afternoons at the prison, he assumed. A smirking thought from somewhere deep inside him observed that the penalty for failure to show would not be as unpleasant. No more barging in on Marva while she was involved in some project and demanding to know where the hell “that boy” was.

He drove this thought away and tried to expand his mind to encompass all the implications. He was trying to force himself to feel sorrow when Marva returned. She sat down across from him.

“Just a matter of time before he jumped the fence,” she said. “I always knew it ran in your family.”

“Maybe not right now,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“Maybe you could go easy on me. I assume that you know the details.”

“Most of them,” she said. “He really did it this time, didn’t he?”

“It seems so.” He focused on his sandwich, thinking she might go away.

“Can you and Bobby get him off for being crazy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you better damn well find out.” She picked at a nail. “He is, you know.”

“He is what?”

“Crazy. He still thinks I stole his woodcarving tools.”

A rolling, horrible thought rumbled somewhere in Ted’s head like thunder approaching on spring afternoon. He pushed it out.

“Maybe I could be alone for awhile,” he said.

“Yeah well, sure,” she said. “Don’t pout.”

“Jesus,” he said. “Not right now.”

“Whatever,” she said. I’m going to go upstairs and paint. If you want to talk or anything, you just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you?” She rose and tried to sway her hips.

“Jesus,” Ted said.

He avoided the news on television that night and went to bed as usual. He slept well and rose early. It was odd, but he felt relieved. Marva had left him alone—a rare instance of mercy. She had gotten up before him so he showered and dressed without commotion. He’d have breakfast and go back to the police station. After that, there wasn’t much he could do. There weren’t any relatives left that would need explanations. He just had to avoid the press and count on his friends to avoid him. He considered going back to work that afternoon.

He called Bobby. Bobby picked him up and took him to the office where he retrieved his car and headed downtown. The morning was fair with a hint that late fall would soon turn to winter. The morning breeze swirled the leaves that bounced across the lawn like puppies. Out in the city people were making plans for the holidays or for a winter vacation in the mountains. What joy that must be!

He stopped at a coffee shop in midtown and had breakfast: two eggs with link sausage, grits, biscuits and gravy. Marva would be so pissed if she knew. To make the defiance complete, he had a glass of whole milk. Screw her watered down shit.

It was late morning before he reached the police station. He retrieved a card from his wallet, looked it over, and asked the sergeant in charge if he could see Lieutenant Crawford.

“I’ll see if he’s available,” the sergeant said. He picked up a phone and punched a number. Ted studied the sergeant’s hands. They were huge and red with nails bitten and chewed as if come animal had tried to destroy them. They were more like his dad’s hands. Marva had hands like that too. Ted’s were pale, with long, manicured nails. They were like his mother’s. That was why he hated to get them dirty.

“He’s on the way up,” the sergeant said, and Ted snapped back into the room.

“What?”

“Lieutenant. He’s coming to get you—sounded happy by the way.”

“Happy, I see,” Ted said. He allowed his mind to free-form thoughts again.

In a moment the door to the receiving cage burst open and Lieutenant Crawford emerged with his hand extended. “Mr. Mellford,” he said. He shook Ted’s hand with excessive enthusiasm and said, “Come on back. I have some good news for you.”

In was in Ted’s mind to ask what but the officer had already turned and started through the door. Ted followed. He felt suspicious and confused.

            They entered the same office in which they had met the day before and Ted sat in the same folding chair. The officer noticed the confusion in his face and beamed a huge smile.

            “Mr. Mellford, have you ever heard of a man named Larry Sikes?”

            Ted stared at him.

            “You don’t do much criminal law, do you?”

            Ted continued to stare.

            “Even if you did, you may not have heard of Larry Sikes.”

            “What do you mean?” Ted knew he sounded disoriented. “I mean, no, I do mostly civil litigation. My partner handles the criminal work. He used to be a county prosecutor, by the way.” He wanted the Lieutenant to know that he had plenty of resources to draw upon if he needed them. “Why do you ask?”

            “Larry Sikes is one of the biggest drug-lords in this state. From up north. He handles the flow of drugs from Little Rock north to St. Louis. He has a rap sheet a mile long.” He stopped. “Or at least he did have.”

            Ted’s mind soared over thought after thought and wouldn’t stop. It was like a horse jumping hurdles and it made him feel dizzy. He looked at the officer.

            “Larry Spikes is the man your father shot and killed.”

            The ride stopped. A menacing dread rose and began to circulate. It climbed Ted’s legs and seemed to laugh from beneath the earth.

            “After we received the full report from all the investigations at the scene, a different picture started coming into focus.”

            The temperature in the room began to drop, it seemed, and Ted stared at the officer.

            “Your dad may be a cantankerous old man, but Larry Spikes turns out to be the one who escalated the whole scene.”

            “Escalated the whole scene,” Ted could only manage to repeat what he was hearing.          

“You will be interested to know that at least two of the witnesses heard him threaten your father at the post office.

            Ted’s mind sullenly prepared itself for danger. An ancient alert system began to spread to his nerve endings. His muscles tensed for instant action.

            “There’s more,” the officer said.

            “More?”

            “More, as in we found a loaded pistol in Spikes’ overcoat and he had apparently reached for it—at least that’s what the closest witnesses told us. We think we have a case of justifiable self-defense.”

            “You do?” Ted placed a hand on the desk in front of him for support. He appeared to be ready either to leap across the desk or spring for the door.

            “I told you we had some good news for you.”

            Ted didn’t move.

            “It seems that your dad has just done the State of Arkansas a huge favor,” the officer said.

            There would have been silence in the room except that the pounding, rhythmic beat of Ted’s head was loud enough that it had to be heard outside the building, or so he imagined.

            “Do you want me to leave you alone for a few minutes?”

            “No,” Ted said and knew that he had said it too quickly. “Just let me think.”

            “I can sum it up for you.”

            “You can?”

            “It will be a cold day in Hell before the prosecutor tries anyone for killing Larry Sikes in self-defense.”

            “Self-defense?” Ted said. It sounded weak, almost pleading.

            “That’s the way we see it. We may stop just short of nominating your dad for Citizen of the Year.” He began to laugh, but stopped when he noticed that Ted wasn’t smiling. “Are you okay?” he asked.

            “Okay? Well sure.” Ted looked at his hand and then removed it from the table.

            “We were in luck. Court was in session so he is being arraigned at this very moment and should be released on his own recognizance within an hour our so, pending a full hearing. It will take us awhile to process him out, but you can come back in about an hour and a half and pick him up,” the officer said. “It’s over as far as we’re concerned.”

The phrase “Pick him up” rotated in Ted’s consciousness. The officer watched him. Ted didn’t move.

            “Are you okay?” the officer asked.

            Ted nodded and looked directly into the other’s eyes.

            “You mean you have to let him go?”

            “I thought you would be happy,” the officer said. “Yes, we have to let him go.”

            “You can’t keep him for, say, observation?”

            The officer leaned forward. “Don’t you understand? We’re letting him out. Why would we want to observe him?”

            “I just worry,” Ted said.

            “About what?”

            “That he might not be the same now that he has tasted blood.”

            The Lieutenant stood and looked Ted over. “We’re finished,” he said. “Can you come back and pick your dad up or not?”

            Ted nodded, and rose. Lieutenant Crawford extended his hand and Ted took it.

            “Oh, in case I forget. Here’s something that wasn’t with his other belongings. I’ll go ahead and leave it with you.” He reached into his coat pocket.

            Ted looked confused.

            “It’s the letter he was writing when the altercation occurred. We won’t be needing it. Will you return it to him?”

            “Sure,” Ted said. He took the folded letter and placed it in his own pocket. The two left in opposite directions.

            Ted left the police station and headed east on Markham Street. He had time on his hands so he would walk to the city’s River Market area and have a cup of coffee. As he walked he sorted through the morning’s events. He concluded that, by any measurement of family loyalty, he should be happy.

            Why wasn’t he?

            He walked on in no hurry, block by block. As he continued, the buildings changed. He crossed an intersection and was no longer on Markham Street but on President Clinton Boulevard. It was like stepping into a different world. There were shops now, along with bars and restaurants lining the busy street. A tour bus passed him and the joyful sound of a trolley bell clanged before him. Everyone seemed happy and busy.

            Everyone but him—he wasn’t even sure he could define happiness. He saw a newspaper box and wondered how the news had covered the shooting. That’s what it would be now: a shooting. It wouldn’t be a cold-blooded murder by a hard-headed, selfish old man but an act of self defense. It might even be presented as a heroic stand by a member of one of the county’s true victim classes.

            “Jesus,” he said, and kept walking.

            Two blocks later, he reached the coffee shop. It was late morning now and the shop was nearly empty as the attendants waited for the noon crowd. He considered something fancy like a “skinny latte” but settled for a cup of the house brand. He sipped it in a corner and watched through a window at the people on the street. Customers came and went, talking of the day’s promise.

As he was finishing his coffee, a couple stopped on the sidewalk by Ted’s window and began to talk. The man reached in his pocket and retrieved a flyer, which he began to read to the other. Then Ted remembered the part about his dad’s writing his sister. He pulled the letter from his pocket and unfolded it as gently as he could.

            There, in that unmistakable manly sprawl was the instrument that had started the episode. He read:

            Sister—this is it! You have always underestimated me for the last time. I will not be withheld from my own house and from my own son. Listen, but good!

            I know what to do. I have done it before if you know what I mean. It wouldn’t mean no more to me than stomping a bug. So don’t hang up on me again.

            I just want some of my tools and they are in the shop and I don’t even have to go into the house but I guess I should if I want since I built it to begin with. So don’t cross me. I am ready and I am resoluted. This is not your meely-mouthed husband (and mine as well, I know) that you are dealing with. This is a man resolved to get back what is his and who don’t care. There won’t be a soul stand in my way. Not nobody.

            When I call you next time, here is what you do because I will be ready to go the limit if you know

            The letter paused there. That’s when it must have happened. Ted rubbed his eyes and drank his coffee. The letter skipped a space and started again.

what I mean. You just tell me when I can come and get my stuff. That fool don’t have to be there as he would muddie things up and you know that as well as I do. Trying to patch things up won’t work no more.  I will give you a day to get this and read it since I suspect that you read real slow. Don’t tarrie.

            “Jesus,” he said, and folded the letter.

            He dropped the coffee cup into a trash receptacle and moved toward the door. He reached the street and turned to the west. He jogged at first but after a block his breath left him. He darted across an intersection against the light and heard a horn honk to his left. He reached the other side somehow without being hit and continued past the Convention Center hotels as fast as he could.

            He was nauseated now and regretted the breakfast. He stopped in front of the Robinson Auditorium and caught his breath. The figure of a walking man flashed on the traffic signal and he started again, past City Hall and then just another block to the police station. Blood pounded in his head and he felt that he would faint. Reaching the station at last, he raced through the door and into the lobby. He was in luck!

            Lieutenant Crawford was standing by the front desk. He looked at Ted with concern.

            “Mr. Mellford,” he said. “Am I glad to see you.”

            “Where’s my dad?” Ted said, wheezing.

            “That’s why I am glad to see you. I think we had a little mix-up.”

            Ted froze. “You mean he’s not getting out.”

            The officer looked pained. “No, he’s getting out alright. In fact, he’s already gone.”

            Ted looked at him, shocked. “Already gone?”

            “I thought you were coming right back so I left him here to wait for you.” As soon as I left, he apparently ran out the door and hailed a cab. He told the sergeant here that he was going to get something from his house.”

            “Jesus Christ!” Ted said. That’s a helluva mix-up.”

            The officer regarded him with a confused look. “That wasn’t the mix-up,” He said. “I hate that he inconvenienced you but we released him. He was free to leave as he chose.” He stopped, and Ted noticed he was frowning.

            “The mix-up was something else,” Lieutenant Crawford said, looking downward.

            “Something else? What?”

            “Well,” the officer seemed uncertain as to where he might begin. Then he explained.

            “We had his personal belongings in a paper sack,” he said. He scratched his chin. “We didn’t intend to return the pistol until we had the final ballistics report back.” Then he sighed and said, “Rookies. God bless them.”

            “Rookies?” Ted said.

            “Rookies. The gun never got sent to ballistics like it should have. We didn’t mean to give it back to your dad.”

            He stopped. “It evidently wasn’t clear to the young fellow in Checkout. He put the gun in the sack with everything else.”

            Panic must have showed on Ted’s face.

            “It won’t be a problem,” the officer said. “We have an officer on the way to his house now.”

            “Oh Hell!” Ted said and he raced for the door.

            “Just for a few days,” Lieutenant Crawford yelled after him. “Tell him I’ll personally see that you get it back when it’s all over.”

            Ted ran from the Police Department building and across the street to where his car waited. He tried to thrust a key into the door and realized, when it didn’t work, that he held the keys to his dad’s car. He thrust a hand into his pocket and retrieved his own. Following a short but fierce struggle, he entered the car and started the engine. Without looking, he darted into traffic. A car horn sounded behind him. He ignored it and sped toward Broadway where he turned right and headed for the freeway.

            The blocks flew by as Ted forced his car through intersection after intersection. He nearly sideswiped a delivery truck as he entered the freeway. He veered to the outside lane and only left it to pass a slower car on the right. “Jesus God,” he repeated over and over. Traffic was light this time of day, so he raced westward. The buildings sped by on either side like wisps of fog but he concentrated solely on driving. He sped on, though it seemed to him as if he were driving through molasses.

Three violent eternities later, he saw his exit. Hurtling off the freeway, he took the nearest street and put the accelerator to the floor. Now he was racing through residential streets in a frenzy kept him on the verge of collision and near the limits of his ability to function.

He was in such a hurry that he missed the first turn to his road and screeched to a halt. As he put the car into reverse and backed past the turn, his mind rumbled without stopping and without pity. He considered outcomes. The rumbling rose in volume.

            As he turned toward his lane, the familiar scenes calmed him. He felt his body jerk as a long, clear, pure note slipped through the mocking rumbling, as if unnoticed. It was a thin streak of whitest light that somehow had pierced the bank of dark and overpowering clouds. He embraced the light affectionately and another shaft shot through the gloom and confusion. He slowed the car.

            As he approached the final turn, light became ascendant. Darkness disappeared and, with it, the rumble.

            The car barely moved as he approached the dog-leg. Instead of turning, he stopped just out of sight of the house. The light filled his head with peace now. He willed this to his hands and they relaxed their grip. He stopped the car.

            As he waited, he moved his left hand slowly to the control panel on the car’s door and lowered both front windows. He listened. The grateful sounds permitted him to enjoy a confusing peace—a peace that had defeated the violent storm that ruled only seconds earlier. He held the steering wheel lightly and waited. The sound captured and moved him like soft music might as it drifted through willowing curtains on a spring night. Now a crescendo of song entered him like purified air. He held it for a moment and relaxed.

Then he heard the first soft popping of gunfire.