Now my legs hurt and I was chilled from standing in my garage, glancing out the window every so often to make sure Crane hadn’t left. There was no assurance he was going anywhere tonight, but I was beginning to hear the pitter-patter of desperation’s tiny feet. The dead end I’d been fearing was fast approaching, and when I got to it, I had no idea what I’d do.
As Crane drove slowly past my place, I left the window and hurried to my car. Door up, back out, accelerate up the Loop, and just like that I was tailing him.
Every movie, stupid TV show, and thriller I’d ever read where someone followed someone else surfaced and submerged. This was like fiction and different at the same time. Sure, tailing someone in crowded traffic was fairly easy. Changing the setting to late-evening suburbia was another story. Hard to hide behind traffic that wasn’t there. Instead I stayed back as far as I could while still keeping Crane in sight.
The Lexus cruised, slow and purposeful, through the dark streets, a shark prowling a midnight reef bed for prey. And what was I? Maybe one of those little parasitic fish swimming under the shark’s belly. I wondered if sharks knew those fish were there and just ignored them. I wondered if Crane was watching me in one of his mirrors.
I dropped farther back.
Downtown Sandford was dead. A few cars loafing along Main Street heading out toward the interstate. Businesses were closed or closing, traffic lights the only colors in the night. Crane took a left on Main and accelerated, leaving me farther behind. I wouldn’t lose him even if he got a half-mile head start. It was that quiet.
Fog rose from the ground and draped itself across yards and sidewalks like ghost garlands. Crane’s taillights flashed once, twice, then stayed on as he made a right down a side street. I took a chance and cruised past, turning at the next street and coasting down a long hill, flashes of the block over visible every so often between buildings. A right at the next intersection, then a left, and there he was again. I congratulated myself on being so sneaky.
As we wound our way through the east side of town, I told myself Crane could be going to get takeout, he could be going to a friend’s house, to pick up dry cleaning. All possibilities. Did I believe any of them? Not really. It was just as likely he was on his way to check on Rachel and the boys—make sure their ropes were still knotted or the cage he had them in was still secure.
Nefarious.
The word suited Crane/DeMarco to a big old capital T. I’d felt it the first time laying eyes on him. The feeling hovered around him like flies around roadkill. Knowing now of his shiny new identity and corroded past only supported the notion.
At the next intersection, Crane went straight across into the industrial development. Lots of sharp rooflines and towering storage buildings cut dark against the rest of the night. Yellow security lights punched holes in shadows here and there, but for the most part that section of town was lonely and dim.
For the second time in my life, I wished I owned a gun. The first time had been years ago, shortly after Sharon and I were married and living in the apartment she would eventually leave me alone in except for a few straggling plants on their way out. We’d been asleep in the mid hours of the night when someone had thumped against our door. Not uncommon. I’d rolled over to drift off again, then Sharon had been clawing and shoving at my shoulder, telling me to wake up, that someone was trying to break in. I hadn’t thought about it, had only climbed out of bed and listened for a second as someone attempted to force the door open in the next room. Then I’d whispered for Sharon to call nine-one-one and walked out into the hall.
A gun. My hand had flexed for one as I’d stepped into the kitchen with a clear view of the entry. Instead I grabbed a broom, all the inadequacy inside me summed up in its flimsy length. Someone would come through the door any second and they would attack me and I would die and Sharon would die. I would fail.
The fear of being unable to keep those you love safe is a fear unto itself. Its own genus and phylum.
In the end I’d called out for the person to go away, that the cops were coming. And they had. I don’t know if Sharon ever guessed how afraid I’d been. I never told her. But I couldn’t forget the crushing sense of helplessness. It tattooed itself on my soul, and every so often when the light was right, I’d catch a glimpse of it.
Like now. Right now.
Dad had a pistol locked in a little gun safe in his bedside table. He’d taken me targeting a few times when I was younger. I remembered how to shoot. I knew the pass code to the safe. Give me a time machine so I could go back and punch those numbers in.