Ken’s Tale
&
The Peterson Dilemma
-------------------------------
Desperate Prequels
by
Nicholas Antinozzi
PUBLISHED BY:
Nicholas Antinozzi
Copyright (c) 2010 by Nicholas Antinozzi
Edited by Coleta Wright
Cover Design by Steve Peterson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Ken’s Tale
The odyssey had begun at a gun show in Minneapolis and was about to play out three weeks later in the back of a Saint Paul pawnshop. Ken Dahlgren was sweating. The sixty year old business owner was way out of his league and he knew it. He was tall, trim and handsome for a man of his years. Ken wore his hair in a military cut over ice blue eyes and a square jaw. He had dressed in jeans and a Vikings sweatshirt and the room was too warm. The dusty storage room was long and narrow and smelled of mildew. Two bare bulbs hanging from wires lit the room, forty watt, Ken guessed. He sat in one of the soiled wingback chairs, and waited in this shabby room to close the deal. Or: if things continued to go wrong; as they had been all day, to be murdered.
This just wasn’t worth the risk and Ken wanted to scream at himself for acting so foolish. He had been told to trust the fat man with the tattoos, which he had done, and found himself at the point of no return. How he had trusted a stranger with five thousand dollars and the keys to his pickup, Ken couldn’t explain. Real smart, Ken thought. I’m sorry, Patty, you married an idiot.
He checked his watch again for the third time in ten minutes and shook his head. Ken remembered what he was thinking about as he prepared to leave that evening, wondering if he should carry a gun. Practical Ken had won that argument, the Ken who trusted in God and that people were good for their word. He now wished he had listened to cynical Ken.
The room was as silent as an empty church and against one of the long walls were shelves crammed with the spoils of the terrible business of pawn-broking. Ken’s eyes were drawn there as the other walls of the room were decorated in cobwebs. The valuables were stacked like cordwood; power tools, electronics, antiques, musical instruments of all makes and sizes, and sporting goods, all jumbled together on the long rows of the three-tiered shelving. Ken wondered what had caused the people to part with each of the pieces, and also wondered how many of the items were stolen.
As the minutes passed he began to retrace his steps, the ones that had led him to this dank, depressing room. Ken attended the gun show with his old friend, Doug Porter. Doug knew his way around and was helping Ken prepare for what both men felt was the inevitable. Doug had been relentless, hammering it into Ken that he needed to be prepared for the worst. They were going to need guns, and not just any guns, but the finest weapons that he could get his hands on, fully automatic and highly illegal.
Ken held his cell phone at the ready, as if he’d have enough time to call the police if something went wrong. He sat tall and erect, just as he always did. At the gun show Doug had introduced him to a man named Mac, and the two chatted in an empty corridor for nearly ten minutes. Mac asked a lot of questions, something for which Ken had been prepared for. He was younger than Ken had expected, perhaps not even thirty, and his eyes never left Ken’s own for a moment. Satisfied that Ken was on the level the man took Ken’s cell number, gave him a set price to be paid in cash, and told him to wait for a call. That phone call had come this afternoon and it was now just after eight.
The inevitable was that Ken believed the dollar was about to crash. Doug Porter, a man whom he trusted with his life, had given him the dire warning a few months earlier. Porter had spoken with such conviction that he’d caused Ken to prepare his lake home for an economic holocaust. He and Patty had shopped wholesale, making the four hour drive to Ely, more times than he cared to remember.
Patty, Ken’s wife of forty years, had no idea where he was or what he was up to. They’d discussed firearms and Patty had put her foot down, quite dramatically, Ken thought to himself. They were church-going, business owners, preparing for an extended stay at their lake home, not gun-toting mercenaries preparing for war against their fellow man.
If what Porter envisioned was about to come true, their fellow man would certainly become their enemy. The math to calculate this scenario was simple enough; all Ken had to do was subtract goods and services from the world around them. People would want what they had; he and Patty would desperately need what they’d stocked away and Ken would fight if it came to that. Ken needed to be prepared for that day, with or without Patty’s blessings.
The door suddenly opened and Ken nearly jumped out of his chair. The bald man had returned. “I’m afraid we have a small problem,” he said, scratching his chin as he sat across from Ken. “I’m going to need another grand.”
“We had a deal,” Ken replied in a hiss. “Five thousand, do you think I brought along another thousand dollars?”
“No, I was thinking that you have an ATM card. Come on, I don’t got all night.”
Ken’s eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth. “No deal, give me my money back.”
The man glared back at him, the vein in his neck throbbing behind the black ink of a prison tattoo. He was thirty years younger than Ken, well-muscled and scarred from battle. He wore a leather vest, covered in motorcycle club patches, over a sleeveless denim shirt. He was missing one of his front teeth and two gold earrings dangled from his misshapen lobes. “Five hundred bucks or you walk away with nothing.”
“Four,” countered Ken. “That’s all I can pull out at a time. I only carry one card, you can see for yourself.”
The bald man scowled and his eyes bored into Ken’s. Ken returned the stare, not giving an inch. The two men sat like that for a long moment, before the bald man nodded. “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “I’m in a good mood tonight. Okay, four hundred. Let’s go.”
Ken expected that they’d leave the building, but he was led to the front of the shuttered pawn shop and they did the transaction at the register. This was a good sign, Ken thought to himself. This tied him to a time and a place and made it unlikely that he’d be murdered. At least, that was what he hoped.
“You’ve got to understand something,” the bald man said in his gruff voice as Ken signed the card receipt. “I’m not making much on these deals and I’m taking a huge risk. I don’t want you walking away thinking that I’m ripping you off. I know people out there who would pay twice what you’re paying. I won’t sell to them, do you understand me?”
Ken nodded.
“So, me and a few of the guys have a place of our own. We’re ready to fight this out. It ain’t much, but it’s out of town and off the beaten trail. You see, you and me aren’t really all that different. I’m going to take this cash and buy a water purifier. You got one of those?”
Ken nodded again, even though he hadn’t thought of a water purifier. “We bought one last month.”
The bald man nodded and took the receipt from Ken. He then waved Ken back in the direction they’d come. Ken followed him through the maze of little rooms to the back door. The door opened up into the alley where Ken’s pickup was parked. The bald man flipped Ken the keys. “Go ahead, check it out. Just be quick about it, I’ve got shit to do.”
Ken caught the keys and walked over to the back of his Ford. He reached under the tarp and felt for the heavy crates of guns and ammunition. He didn’t bother to open them and they could have been filled with stones, Ken had seen enough. Whatever was in those crates he had paid fifty-four hundred dollars for, which was good enough for now. Ken nodded in approval and stuck his hand out to the man.
“Ain’t you going to open them up?”
“No reason to, unless you think I need to?”
“Nope, it’s all there,” he said, taking Ken’s hand and shaking it. “Good luck, man.”
“Good luck to you, too,” said Ken, who had already turned and was heading to the driver’s door. He got inside and took a deep breath, trying to slow the beating of his pounding heart. He pushed the key into the ignition and fired up the engine. He turned and gave the tattooed man a nod of his head, shifted into drive and began to creep out of the dark alley.
The red lights exploded from out of nowhere. There were so many flashing lights that Ken was certain that the entire Saint Paul Police Department had suddenly converged there at once. Men emerged from out of the blackness, wearing battle armor and pointing assault rifles directly at him. Ken slammed on the brakes and shifted the Ford into park. He put his hands on the dash as ordered, and said a silent prayer to Saint Oswald, Protector of the Idiots.
He was roughly pulled from the pickup and shoved to the ground where he was cuffed. So many things were going through his mind that he nearly forgot to be afraid. Strong hands explored every inch of his body and Ken flushed with embarrassment.
How long he laid there on the cold April concrete was anybody’s guess. Ken didn’t move as reality began to hit home. He was going to prison, he was sure of it. Ken was flooded with emotions and he fought back the tears that were welling up behind his blue eyes.
“What do you have in the crates, Mr. Dahlgren?” asked an impossibly young, plain clothes officer.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Sir, I’d like your permission to open those crates.”
“Go jump in the lake.”
Ken was told they would have a Search Warrant in five minutes and he was left lying on the pavement. From what he could see there were at least a dozen police officers on the scene. He was suddenly hauled to his feet by two burly officers. Ken was read his rights and seated in the back of a warm squad car. This can’t be happening, Ken thought to himself. Deep down Ken realized that he had been fortunate; half an hour ago he wasn’t sure that he’d survive the night. The only saving grace was the fact that he had a receipt for the rifles and the ammunition. That much had been legal; legal, right up to the point of being fully automatic.
Ken stared out the window as the police radio squawked codes and static. A piece of paper was pressed to his window. “That’s our warrant, Mr. Dahlgren, we’ll be opening those crates now.” said a woman’s voice. The paper was held to the window for a few moments before the woman officer joined the party. Stamped on the back of her windbreaker was ATF. Ken swallowed hard. Patty is going to kill me.
Although the car was parked fifty feet from the back of his pickup, Ken had a bird’s eye view of the scene as it unfolded. The crate of rifles, illuminated by the beams of half a dozen flashlights, sat on the tailgate of Ken’s Ford. The police looked like shadows as they opened the crate and removed the first of the rifles.
Even from inside the idling police car, Ken could hear the unmistakable sound of laughter. The rifle was short and there was a long, banana-shaped tube at one end. Ken didn’t recognize the tube. More laughter, two unhappy looking men were hurrying towards the car. One of the men was carrying one of his guns, except the gun wasn’t what he’d paid for. He suddenly understood what the tube was for; the tube was for paintballs.
Ken was hauled to his feet and the cuffs were removed. A well-dressed man of roughly his own age, stood before him, holding the toy gun. “Get out of here,” said the plain clothes officer to the uniform. “I want to have a few words with this clown.”
“Yes sir,” said the uniformed officer. Ken watched him walk away and felt as if his knees might buckle.
“You know what I think, Dahlgren?” he asked, handing the paintball gun to Ken. “I think you’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met. What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve been killed down here, and don’t you dare tell me that you drove down here for these. I know damn well that you were looking for automatic weapons. If you hadn’t been ripped off, I’d be locking you behind bars for the next twenty years. I hope you paid a ton of cash for these things. Now listen, go back to Crown, wherever the hell that is, and don’t ever let me catch you in Saint Paul, again. Do we understand each other? Take my advice: go home and thank God that you’re not dead or in lockup.”
The drive home was made in silence, broken only by sporadic fits of laughter. Ken parked the pickup in the driveway and sighed. The lights were blazing in the windows. Ken had turned off his cell phone and had forgotten to turn it back on. Patty would be awake and she was going to be furious. Ken shook his head and got out of the Ford.
He opened the door and there was Patty, sitting on the couch dressed in her bathrobe and pajamas. Her arms were crossed and she was staring out the picture window into the blackness. “So, did you have a good time?”
Ken opened his mouth to speak, but Patty never gave him the opportunity. She was instantly on her feet and she was shouting. Patty never shouted. She circled him as he stood in the entryway, wagging a finger at him as if he were a little boy. Ken listened, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Patty continued with her tirade for nearly a minute, which felt like an hour to Ken. Finally, all shouted out, Patty leaned her head into her husband’s chest. She grabbed him in her arms and began to sob. “I was so worried about you,” she gasped. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”
Ken slept on the couch that night, but not until he’d replayed the night’s events over and over in his head a dozen times. The fact that he’d been swindled meant nothing, except that it’d saved him from a lengthy prison sentence. He should send the bald, tattooed man a thank-you card, Ken knew that. There would be no more talk of weapons, especially illegal ones. There would be no more nights like this.
Ken would spend the next three nights on the couch, but the argument was over. Patty never asked where he’d been and he never volunteered the information. They soon fell back into their routine of running their failing business and purchasing supplies. Ken bought a water purifier, chuckling as he paid for the purchase. When the clerk looked at him like he’d lost his mind, Ken replied: “Long story, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
Weeks passed, the Dahlgren’s borrowed against the equity in their business to meet payroll. They continued to borrow from Peter to pay Paul, watching helplessly as everything slipped away. They ate their meals in silence, watching the national news between bites. The situation was growing worse every day. Companies once thought to be made of stone, dried up like so many tumbleweeds and were blown away by the winds of change. Ken sold his prized Corvette, which bought them another week of wages.
Ken had put the entire gun incident behind him. There was simply no time to think about what might have been. He and Patty were putting in long hours and the strain was catching up with them. Patty was further taxed by her volunteer work at the Crown Senior Center.
Laundry detergent suddenly tripled in price. Canned foods became scarce. The lines became noticeably longer.
Ken didn’t recognize the phone number as it came up on his caller ID, but he certainly recognized the voice. “I’ve got your guns,” said the man. “Meet me at your business.”
Ken began to speak but the bald man had already terminated the call. Ken checked his watch, Patty wouldn’t be home for nearly two hours, which was plenty of time for him to get back and stash the guns. What he didn’t understand was why the man had called in the first place. He’d happily written off the loss. This time he put the loaded .38 Smith & Wesson in the pocket of his sports jacket before leaving the house.
The evening was warm and overcast, the highways were nearly clear as people huddled around their televisions for the beginning of primetime. Ken drove with the windows down, but that didn’t help him with the sweating. He grew more apprehensive with each passing mile. What the hell is going on? Why didn’t he just keep the guns?
What the hell am I doing?
The fear had returned in a great rush and it filled his belly with what felt like a gurgling volcano. Ken’s hands shook on the steering wheel and he needed to keep rubbing the sweat onto the knees of his blue jeans. By the time he turned the Ford into the driveway of his darkened machine shop, Ken’s heart felt as if it were going to explode. An unfamiliar van sat parked near the building and Ken eased his Ford in next to it.
The bald man got out of the van and stood next to Ken’s open window. “How’s it goin’?” he asked, as if the two were old friends. Ken nodded and watched a pair of strangers exit the back of the van, pulling a heavy steel crate behind them.
“I’m good,” said Ken. “Can I ask you what the hell happened the last time we met?”
“You could, but all I can tell you is that I had no part in that. We were lucky, but that doesn’t excuse the bastards that tried to rip you off. I insisted that they make things right with you, I hope you don’t mind.”
The men were now sliding the crate into the back of the truck. Ken shook his head. “I don’t mind.”
“Looks like I’m going to need that water purifier sooner than I thought.”
Ken chuckled, he couldn’t help himself. “That makes two of us,” he said, watching the men as they returned to the truck with the heavy crate of ammunition. He was about to say something else when all eyes turned to the driveway. A black Chevrolet pickup had slammed on the brakes and was speeding into the lot. Ken instantly recognized the truck as belonging to Jimmy Logan, a young man he employed that was more like a son. He’d want to know what was going on. “He works for me, here,” Ken said. “I’m sure he just wants to know what I’m up to.”
“Get rid of him,” hissed the bald man.
Ken nodded and got out of the Ford. He gave Jimmy a wave as the Chevy drew closer, which was when Ken saw that Jimmy wasn’t alone. Ken recognized the face immediately; he just had trouble with the name. He thought it was Bart Higgins, or something close to that. What he knew for sure was that the man could talk for an hour without once pausing for a breath. This wasn’t good. “Jimmy,” said Ken, as the black pickup rolled up next to him. “What are you guys up to?”
“Just heading over to Marvin’s, Bill is going to take a look at his tractor. Ken, you remember my neighbor, Bill, don’t you?”
Ken nodded. “Bill,” he said, wanting to nip this in the bud. “Well, you guys are burning daylight, I won’t keep you. These guys are here for the titanium scrap and Patty’s going to be home soon. I want to wrap this up and head home.”
“No problem, I need to run inside and grab my lunch-box,” said Jimmy. He shifted the Chevy into park and quickly shut off the ignition. “I’ll be right out,” he added, turning to Bill. He was out of his pickup before Ken had the chance to stop him.
Ken walked over to the van and stared hard at the bald man who had gotten behind the wheel. “I’ll be right out with that barrel of titanium shavings, won’t take a second.”
The bald man nodded at Ken, fire flashed in his eyes.
A door banged shut and footsteps sounded on the gravel parking lot. “I need to use the bathroom,” Bill said. “Titanium scrap, huh? What’s that going for these days?”
There was a long moment of silence as the bald man stared at Bill. “That’s between Ken and me, we’ve got an agreement,” he said with a sneer. “We’ve got to get going, stand on it, man.”
Ken nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be out in two minutes. Come on, let’s head inside.”
“Right,” said Jimmy, who looked puzzled by the situation. He turned to follow Ken into the building. “Come on, Bill.”
“That’s between Ken and me,” mimicked Bill. “I was only asking you a question, you didn’t have to be so rude about it,” he said to the bald man. “I was just going to tell you that your back tire looks low. You might want to put some air into it.”
Ken groaned. “Back it up to the door, I’ll bring you out an air-hose.” Ken continued to walk, hoping that Jimmy and Bill would follow and then leave. Why does this stuff always happen to me? Ken asked himself as he walked up to the front door with his keys.
The evening was cloudy and cool and the grass was wet from an earlier shower. Ken unlocked the door and held it open for Jimmy and Bill, who had just slipped down another rung on Ken’s ladder of respectability. Jimmy turned on the hallway lights in the gloomy office. The hallway led to the bathroom and out into the idle shop.
“The bathroom is down the hall and to the left,” Ken said to Bill. “I’ve got to grab some papers, Jimmy, I’ll see you here in the morning.”
“Sure,” said Jimmy.
Ken could tell by the way that he spoke that he was hurt. Ken and Patty had looked after Jimmy as the son they’d never had of their own, after a tragic accident had taken Jimmy’s parents. Ken would just have to make it up to him, tomorrow. He didn’t want that van in his parking lot and he needed to stash the guns and ammo. He was happy to see Bill shuffle down the hallway in his grimy work clothes. Ken had never seen him dressed differently and he wondered if he owned any clean clothes. Jimmy followed with his head down, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Ken took a deep breath as Jimmy walked out the door that led to the break-room.
Ken ran his hands over his head and tried to think. He couldn’t risk Jimmy and Bill wandering over to his pickup. The weapons and ammo were just sitting in the box, right out in the open and just begging to be commented upon. He walked back outside and over to where the van was now parked, just outside the large overhead door. “They’ll be right out,” Ken said, looking at the tire in question. “That guy was right; you do need some air in that thing.”
“I know,” replied the bald man. “Just bring me out that air-hose. I want to get the hell out of here.”
Ken began to speak, but the sudden trundling of the overhead door broke the silence. Ken wanted to scream when he saw Bill standing alone at the open door, an air-chuck in one hand and a tire gauge in the other. As the heavy door reached its zenith and the electric motor stopped, Ken heard the unmistakable rumble of one of the forklifts. Ken could feel his face begin to redden.
Bill was already at the back of the van, kneeling next to the tire with the air gauge. “Fifteen pounds,” he said after a quick check of the gauge. “Good thing I spotted that.”
Ken looked at the bald man and they both nodded their heads. The echoing sound of the LP-powered forklift rumbling inside the building made Ken’s stomach roll. Jimmy emerged a few moments later, on one of the Toyotas; the forklift carried three barrels full of the valuable titanium shavings. Ken gritted his teeth and stole a look at the bald man.
The bald man was now smiling. He got out of the van and walked back to Bill, who had just finished airing up the tire and was twisting the cap back into place. “Thanks a lot, man,” he said, giving Bill a friendly pat on the shoulder. “You guys are all right,” he added. He then walked to the back and swung open the two doors of the Dodge cargo van. “Come on out here guys, let’s get these barrels loaded up. Ken, you never said that you had three barrels of titanium…”
Ken watched in horror as Jimmy dropped the pallet at the back of the van and set the brake on the forklift. He tried to estimate how much the shavings were worth at four dollars a pound. He quickly discovered he didn’t want to know. The bald man’s friends were suddenly hefting the barrels into the back of the van, being careful not to spill any of the valuable shavings.
Ken caught the bald man’s eye and he gave Ken a knowing smile. Ken returned the smile with a look of dumbfounded resignation. Ken lowered his head and accepted his fate. The weapons had just become much more expensive, simply because he’d opened his fool mouth. He would lose a lot of sleep over this, Ken was sure of that much.
“Ken, you’re about five pounds low, yourself!” shouted Bill, who had somehow escaped the group and now squatted next to Ken’s pickup.
Ken nearly ran the thirty feet over to where his pickup was parked. He could feel his heart slamming inside his chest and his feet seemed to be as heavy as concrete blocks. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it in the morning,” he said, pin-wheeling his right arm. “Come on, I’ve got to get headed home and I want to lock up.”
Bill twisted the cap back on the valve-stem and stood up. “Hey, I was just trying to do you a favor,” he said, looking directly into the back of Ken’s truck.
Ken was on the verge of a total mental breakdown; he put his hands over his face and groaned. The truth was out and plain for both Bill and Jimmy to see. The gig was up. He felt for the snub-nosed .38 in his jacket pocket and turned to face the others. The next few seconds were going to be very intense.
“Hey Ken,” Bill said in his annoying tone of voice. “What do you got under the tarp?”
Ken quickly spun around as Bill began to reach into the box. “None of your b-business,” stammered Ken. “Let’s go!”
Bill withdrew his hand as if he’d been bitten. He held both of them up defensively, his eyes were dark and his expression had grown sour. “Right,” he said. “None of my business, I get it. Well, you don’t have to draw me a map, come on, Jimmy, let’s get out of here. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
Ken waited for Bill to step away from his pickup before speaking. He was still reeling from the near miss. The bald man must’ve instructed his men to cover the load while they were inside the building. “It’s not like that; I just need to get home. Jimmy will tell you, my wife doesn’t like it when I’m late for dinner. Come on, thanks for checking my tire.”
Bill didn’t respond as he walked over to Jimmy and handed him the tire gauge. Ken could read Jimmy’s expression; they were only trying to help. The bald man waved his partners back inside the van and quickly got behind the wheel of the Dodge. He twisted the key in the ignition and dropped the van into gear. “Nice doing business with you,” he said to Ken with a smile. “Have a nice night.”
Ken watched as the van slogged away across the muddy gravel lot.
Patty was not only home early by the time Ken pulled into the driveway; she was standing at the back of her car with an armload of groceries. Ken grasped the steering wheel with such force that it nearly bent in half. She wasn’t due home for at least another hour and she didn’t look happy. Ken pulled the Ford into the turn-around and jogged up to where Patty stood.
“Where have you been?” Patty asked, handing Ken the bag she had been holding.
“I had to run down to the shop. Jimmy needed to grab his lunch-box.”
Patty had been reaching into her trunk for another bag of groceries, but she pulled up short. “You drove five miles to the shop so Jimmy could get his lunch-box, at this hour? Are you kidding me? You don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you? Why did you park over there? Are you hiding something from me, Ken?”
Ken had never felt such a high level of frustration and he understood instantly what happened when people snapped. He had reached that point and was ready to spill his guts, right there in the driveway for Patty and the whole world to hear. Ken heard himself say: “Mother’s Day present, I was trying to keep it a secret. No peaking.” Ken didn’t know where the lie had come from, but he didn’t feel guilty about using it. Patty would lose her mind if she knew what was in the back of his pickup, especially after dragging the cost out of him.
Patty gave him a hard look, but it quickly softened. “There’s ice cream in there,” she said, returning her attention to the bags in the trunk. “Come on, I’ll fix us a pizza.”
Ken was sitting at the kitchen table, feeling like he needed a shower and about twelve hours of sleep. The evening had left him feeling utterly exhausted. Patty explained that the meeting at the Crown Senior Center had been cancelled and rescheduled for next week. She pre-heated the oven and began to fill the cupboards and refrigerator with groceries. Ken watched her and tried to be an attentive listener as he thought about how many close calls the automatic weapons had caused. There had been far too many and Ken had yet to hold a single one of them. He was thinking about where in the garage he’d stash them, until he figured out how to get them up to their lake home, when Patty excused herself to the bathroom.
“I’m going to go hide your gift,” Ken lied. “I’ll be right back.”
Patty nodded and Ken wasted no time. The crate of rifles was heavy and awkward for one man to handle. Ken wrestled it into the garage and quickly stowed it under his cluttered workbench. The garage was his domain and he doubted Patty would stumble across anything before he found a way to move them permanently. He returned for the ammunition and soon was closing the overhead door. The entire operation had lasted just two or three minutes.
Patty was waiting for him at the door. “What’d you buy me?” she asked; her eyes bright with curiosity and a smile perched on her lips. “Wait, don’t tell me; make it a surprise. Here, let me take your jacket.”
Ken slipped out of his jacket and felt the heavy slap of the Smith & Wesson. Patty took it from him before he could think. She walked to the open closet off the foyer and reached for a hanger. Ken began to sweat again.
Patty found the sidearm as she hung the jacket up in the closet.
There would be no pizza that evening and Ken soon found himself on the couch, once again deep inside Patty’s doghouse.
Ken lay awake for many hours, long after he should’ve been sleeping. He felt physically sick and mentally drained. The experience with the guns was something he never wanted to relive. He only hoped that it had all been worth it. The guns had cost him much more than the money and the titanium shavings; they temporarily had cost him the trust of his wife. Ken cursed his luck, knowing better than to think he could ever sneak anything past Patty. He had a lot of work in front of him; regaining that trust was going to cost him, he was sure of it.
At the same time, Patty was lying awake on the bed. What she hadn’t told Ken was that she, herself, had cancelled the meeting; she had a terrible premonition and it had caused her to pull off the road and gather her thoughts. She wondered about that. She also wondered what Ken had really been up to, armed, no less. She found that she really didn’t want to know. He was a good man and she trusted him completely, even if he told her a fib now and then.
They both fell asleep after contemplating their situation. The collapse of the economy could happen at any time and they had still to discuss who they would be inviting to join them at the lake home. They would soon find out that they were far from agreement on the number of people they would allow to head north with them; to ride out the storm.
The Peterson Dilemma
Stanley Peterson sat in the window of his elegant home and watched in disbelief as black smoke billowed into the evening sky. Houses were burning; too many to count, and Stanley knew it was only a matter of time before the riot reached his doorstep. The complete absence of emergency vehicles responding to a neighborhood in total chaos weighed on his mind like a stone. It seemed as if everyone had left their posts and had returned home to defend what they had; leaving the Petersons, and millions more like them, unprotected from the roving mobs of anarchists. Stanley held his shotgun across his knees and admired the bravery of his own men. Money still had its advantages, but for how long was anyone’s guess.
Stanley stood, sighed, and stared at himself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall of his office located on the east end of his sprawling home. He stared into the face of a frightened old man. At just sixty-five, Stanley could’ve passed for a man in his late seventies. He was of average height, but he was thin and frail; thick white hair topped his head and a pair of matching eyebrows sat on his forehead, like two halves of a misplaced handlebar mustache. Stanley was dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and his favorite hunting shirt. He wore his walking sneakers over white socks and he felt strangely out of place in his own home.
He wasn’t sure if he could kill a fellow man, but he couldn’t bear to be without the semi-automatic, Remington shotgun. Stanley would make the decision to shoot when the time came. Either way, he doubted it would make much of a difference. Surviving this terrible night would be nothing short of a miracle. Tomorrow wasn’t looking any better. The electricity and water had been cut off and it would be dark soon. How long could he expect his hired help to stand by them?
The sound of angry, shouting voices sent Stanley scrambling to the door. The mobs had reached the gates, Stanley was sure of it. He surprised himself by flinging open the front door and charging out onto the marble staircase, the Remington held at the ready. What he saw there confused him for a moment. Stanley’s men had suddenly sided-up and they looked as if they were about to tee off in match play.
Carl, the family butler, quickly joined him in the still air of the fading light. He was small and wiry, and still wore his uniform despite everything that had transpired. Stanley knew Carl would see this to the end; he had been with them for nearly twenty years and had no family of his own.
“What the devil is going on?” Carl demanded to know, holding a small revolver in his right hand. “Garrison, order your men back to their posts!”
Stanley was thankful that Carl had given the order, knowing full well that he should’ve given it himself. The little handgun was something new and it jittered in Carl’s trembling hand. Stanley had no doubt that Carl would pull the trigger, he only hoped that this wouldn’t be the time or the place.
“Some of the men want to return home to their families,” Garrison Kline, the head of security, shouted up to the house. “I told them that I’d talk to you about it.”
Stanley felt the wind rushing out of his sails and his knees felt weak. He knew that this was the moment of truth and that their lives depended upon them sticking together. Stanley’s mouth became dry as he fought to give the order.
Carl beat him to the punch. “They’ve been paid in advance! No one leaves the property.”
“You heard the man,” shouted Kline, a burly man in his mid-forties. “Get back to your posts!”
The gunshot caught Kline in the forehead and sent him sprawling onto the manicured lawn. Stanley began to scream as time seemed to slow and all hell broke loose. The two groups of men exchanged deadly volleys of gunfire, with Kline’s group suffering the worst of it. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air and Stanley’s ears rang in the muted silence.
“Drop your goddam guns!” Al Jackson barked at the two men at the house. Stanley suddenly realized that he was talking to them, and both he and Carl dropped to their knees and did as they were told.
Stanley’s heart was threatening to leap from his chest. The men lying on the ground were mostly still, having died instantly in the hail of bullets. One man, Jim Cooper, lay writhing on the grass, his bloody hands clutching at his stomach. Stanley had liked Jim Cooper, but now he was on the other side and he wasn’t quite sure he could find any sympathy for him. Jackson held his gun trained on Stanley and Carl as he stepped away to check on Cooper. The only other man left standing was Hop Thurber, who held an assault rifle trained on the house. Stanley had never trusted Thurber, and one side of his brain was telling the other: I told you so.
Jackson quickly checked Cooper’s wound, stood, and fired a quick shot into Jim Cooper’s head. Stanley and Carl exchanged horrified glances and held their hands high in the air. Thurber gave Jackson a nod of approval. Six of Stanley’s men now lay dead on the grass.
A puff of wind blew wisps of smoke across the tops of the tall oaks. Stanley could see licks of flame across the street. He could hear people screaming from blocks away; could feel the situation spinning out of control and he felt totally helpless to stop it.
Stanley Peterson had somehow known that it would come to this. He watched Al Jackson walk over to join Hop Thurber, the two men began to whisper and Stanley was sure that they were discussing what to do about him and Carl. Stanley felt every one of his sixty-five years and his arms felt incredibly heavy as they reached into the sky. The conference seemed to last an eternity, but Stanley knew that it hadn’t lasted for more than a minute.
“We’re leaving, Mr. Peterson. I’m going to make you an offer. I want the keys to your Escalade and your wallet. Hop and I will also be taking your weapons. Consider yourselves lucky, Hop thinks we should shoot the both of you.”
Stanley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He gave Carl a stern look when he saw that the butler was frowning. Carl gave him an exasperated look before nodding to Jackson.
Stanley and Carl were ordered into the house, where they joined the three lone occupants in the great room. Paula, the Peterson’s daughter was sitting on the sofa with her new boyfriend. She had introduced him earlier in the day as Skip something or other. Stanley hadn’t liked him and didn’t care to remember his last name. The man’s face was battered and bruised and he wore a biker’s leather jacket over a t-shirt and blue jeans. He didn’t belong. Paula was dressed in sharp contrast to her boyfriend, wearing designer clothes and just a touch of makeup on her sculpted face. She was much too good for the man seated next to her. Stanley’s wife, Mary, stood by the fireplace, and looked to be on the verge of tears.
Al Jackson held them at gunpoint while Hop Thurber conducted a search of the house; he was no doubt stealing them blind. Stanley sat with his hands folded, on one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. The sound of distant gunshots punctuated the silence.
Those minutes were the longest of Stanley’s life; he felt completely violated and utterly vulnerable under Jackson’s challenging glare. The sky had darkened into twilight before Thurber returned. He was carrying his rifle slung over his shoulder and two pillowcases stuffed full with who knew what. He handed one of the pillowcases to Jackson; Thurber then pulled a handgun from a shoulder holster, which had been concealed underneath his sports jacket.
Paula held her head in her hands and wept. Mary crossed her arms and waited defiantly at the side of the fieldstone fireplace. Carl sat next to Stanley in one of the wingbacks and Skip stared at them, as if one of them was supposed to spring into action. Stanley returned the stare with a glare of his own. He wondered about his daughter and why she saw the need to date men that were obviously beneath her. The man seated across from him made her former boyfriend, Jimmy Logan, look like a prince. Stanley found himself wishing that Paula had stayed with Logan.
“We’re going to leave now,” said Jackson in his gravel voice. “Don’t do anything foolish, please? There has been enough death for one day. My suggestion would be to get the hell out of here and as far away from the city as you can. I’m sorry that it came to this, I just want you to know that.”
“Tell that to those dudes in the yard,” muttered Skip.
Jackson’s jaw dropped and his face grew red with anger. He looked as if he might say something, but he was interrupted by the explosion of Thurber’s handgun. The shot took Skip full in the face and sent the sofa flying over backwards. Paula, her face splattered with gore, began to shriek as she scrambled away from the dead man. She ran to her father, where he stood and held her in his arms.
“Trust me, I just did you guys a favor,” said Thurber. “Come on, Al, let’s get outta here.”
Jackson nodded and turned to leave. From over his shoulder he warned the group not to try following them, which was the furthest thing from their minds. They waited for nearly five minutes before moving out to the kitchen, leaving Skip sprawled out on the floor of the great room.
With death hanging in the air and the world closing in on them, Stanley made a command decision. They would follow Jackson’s advice and leave the city. Carl immediately began to box up some food items from the pantry as the Peterson’s packed up some of their belongings.
Again, Stanley wondered about his daughter. There had only been a brief flash of emotion after Thurber had murdered her new boyfriend, but it had passed like a dark cloud over the golf course. He marveled at her practical mind, thinking that she’d be more than capable of handling the family fortune the moment the insanity stopped and everything returned to normal. This was good news; Paula’s intestinal fortitude had recently come into question and he and Mary had argued about what to change in the Will. They both loved their daughter, but Mary didn’t think she was capable of handling the estate. The Peterson’s were nearly billionaires, and Paula’s mental status was no small matter. There was one thing that both Stanley and Mary agreed upon; Jimmy Logan wouldn’t see a penny of their money, the Peterson’s were convinced he was a gold-digger and everything was to go into a Trust if Paula married him.
Stanley had no doubt that Mary was in shock. She hadn’t spoken a word since the shooting and Stanley was somehow happy about that. She wasn’t complicating things by adding her ideas, nor was she emotional considering what had just transpired. He watched her as she packed her things, choosing practical clothing over her thousand dollar outfits. Stanley followed her, adding a charcoal sports jacket, in case the opportunity to wear it presented itself.
The bags were loaded into the Mercedes and Carl waited at the kitchen door for his instructions. They were leaving their home, that much was certain. What hadn’t been discussed was where they’d go. All eyes fell upon him as Stanley poured himself a glass of wine. He drank it down in one steady gulp and tossed the glass against the wall, where it exploded into a thousand jagged little pieces. “Ready to shove off, Carl?”
“Yes sir,” replied the diminutive butler.
“Any ideas?”
“No sir, I was hoping you’d have a plan.”
“Right,” Stanley said, and then he suddenly turned to Paula. “Sweetheart, I’d like to ask you about Jimmy’s friends. Do you think we’d be welcomed there? He insinuated as much on the telephone. I think we should consider the possibility of riding this out up there, providing that it’s all right with you.”
“No sir,” interrupted Carl, his face turning a shade of red. “We don’t want to go there; you can trust me on that. Jimmy Logan is a two-bit thug, begging your pardon, Miss Paula. What are we supposed to do if he turns us away? No, I think it’s a bad plan, in case you want my opinion.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” snapped Stanley, pointing a finger in Carl’s direction. “Don’t you dare interrupt me again, Carl, am I making myself clear? Don’t you ever forget who is in charge here, I make the decisions.”
“You asked me if I had any ideas.”
“And you said that you didn’t. I was speaking to my daughter. Paula, I was asking you a question, I’d like to hear your response.”
“Jimmy loves me, of course we would be accepted there,” said Paula, lighting one of her menthol cigarettes. “It’s a four hour drive, but it’s far away from here. I think it’s a good plan and the Dahlgren’s are simple people. I know the way up there and they’ll take us in.”
Stanley nodded his head and just like that, the decision was made. From what they’d heard, the dollar was nearly worthless and commerce had ended earlier in the day. They would have one tank of gasoline to find their refuge, and the Dahlgren’s lake home sounded like a good place to hide. Stanley could see Carl wasn’t happy with his decision, but that mattered little to him. The only thing that mattered was taking Jackson’s advice and getting to safety as soon as possible. Stanley nodded towards the door.
The four hour journey would last many days and there were times that Stanley was sure they’d all be killed. Their home a distant memory, the group plodded their way to the north. The trip would strip them of their dignity and change the way they looked at the world.
If you found these prequels enticing, discover three more tantalizing quick reads: Jon, Julie Hartman, Julie Hartman and Bill Huggins; follow these up with the most incredible journey into what could be…Desperate Times by Nicholas Antinozzi at Smashwords.com