
# **Contents**

Copyright

Disclaimer

Thanks

Dedication

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

A Note From The Author
****

**GREY AREAS**

** BY BRAD CARL**

Copyright © 2015 Brad Carl

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover art adaptation by Matt Downing Photography
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
I sincerely appreciate you taking the time to read this book. Please consider leaving a review wherever you purchased it. Reviews are an author's best friend, next to readers like you. And be sure to help spread the word by telling your friends about the Grey Areas saga.

Thank you so much for supporting my work.

—Brad

To my father, Don, who helped me finish reading my first chapter book, _Mystery of the Desert Giant,_ circa 1978.

I miss you every day, Dad. This accomplishment is for you.
**I**

"Do you believe in life on other planets?" Bruce Townsend asked.

Henry Fields stared across the counter. He wanted to pull the stray white hair sticking out from Townsend's nose. But he also wanted this job.

"Do you?" Henry asked back.

Townsend smirked. "Answering a question with a question. Classic deflection. I like that. When can you start?"

Henry wasn't surprised. The sign in the window of the Corner Store read "Help Needed" not "Help Wanted," implying desperation. He'd only noticed it because the speed limit slowed him down to thirty miles an hour as he drove past the store on Highway 57. It was as if Gable, Iowa, had chosen him.

"Whenever you want me to," Henry replied, looking around the small store.

"How about tomorrow morning? Be here a few minutes before six. Since you've never worked in a convenience store or gas station, there are gonna be a few things I need to show you. Where do you live?"

"Nowhere yet. You got any suggestions?"

"Well, welcome to Gable, first of all. You'll find some great food at Stubby's Diner right across the street there," Townsend said, pointing. "If you're a single fella you can get some porno mags right over here," he continued, strolling to the magazine section of his store. "Or when you need groceries to cook an anniversary dinner for your better half, you might wanna head twenty miles south to Adler. It's the main hub around here, a much larger town. Or you can always get your grub here but, as you can imagine, our selection for that kind of shit is limited."

It was obvious to Henry that Townsend was trying to learn more about him. Bruce Townsend was a man in his mid-fifties, bald head, medium height, pot belly, and two days' growth of white beard showing.

"I'm on my own. Just a thirty-year-old bachelor. So, do you have some thoughts on where I might live?"

"Oh yeah, sorry. Sometimes I get sidetracked. You could live in Adler, but you're gonna spend less in gas and rent living in Gable. Plus, we don't have the crime that Adler has. Tom Chumansky has a little farmhouse just west of here. He built himself a big mansion behind it. Owns a couple of electronics superstores in Adler. I heard he's trying to rent out the farmhouse. It's a decent place."

"Sounds good to me," Henry said. He had driven through the small city of Adler less than an hour ago and estimated its population at around a hundred thousand. It seemed like a good spot, but saving money right now was Henry's best move. As Townsend began writing down directions to Chumansky's house, he remembered something else.

"One more thing," he said. "The employee you're replacing was also my accounting person. Now, I don't expect you to take that part over, but would you mind getting paid by personal check? I'll get the other paperwork and stuff handled later."

Henry decided this might be a good opportunity to push the envelope.

"How about you pay me in cash?" Henry suggested. "Banks annoy the shit out of me." May as well drop a curse word back at Townsend and let him know it doesn't offend me, Henry thought to himself.

"I know what you mean," Townsend responded. "They're always finding reasons to charge you extra—returned check fees, overdraft charges, minimum balances, the whole nine yards. Fine, then. Cash it is."

Henry walked over to Townsend and collected the directions to the farmhouse.

"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Townsend. I won't let you down," Henry said, holding out his hand.

"I know you won't, kid," Townsend replied, shaking Henry's outstretched hand. "And why don't you just call me Bruce."

"Will do," Henry said. He walked to the door and pulled his car keys out. A thought crossed his mind as he exited. He turned and added, "You can call me Hank...if you want to."

"See you bright and early tomorrow morning, Hank."

Henry walked to his dark blue Honda Civic and got in. He sighed as he turned the ignition. A new beginning. A chance to start again. Gable seemed quiet. And small. "Population 879" read the green sign that had welcomed him to town.

Following Bruce's instructions, it took less than ten minutes to arrive at the farmhouse. Henry turned in to a long gravel driveway and drove a quarter mile before he saw a small white house on his right. Sitting behind it another quarter mile or so down the drive was a large brown house.

Looks like this is the place, Henry thought as he looked around. There were trees, bushes, weeds, and grass on three sides of the small house. A faded red barn sat at the edge of a wooded area about a hundred feet in front of the house. Around the corner of the barn, Henry spotted a man driving a riding lawn mower through the yard. He was smoking a cigar and doing his best to cut the grass around two German shepherds that were frolicking in his path. The man noticed Henry, who by now had come to a complete stop. He turned off the mower as Henry exited his car and began walking towards him.

"Would you happen to be Mr. Chumansky?" Henry inquired.

"That's me," the man responded, pulling himself off the seat. He wasn't a large man, maybe five foot six, thin, with sandy blonde hair, squinty eyes, and a squeaky voice. "What can I do for you?"

"My name is Henry Fields. Bruce Townsend at the Corner Store told me I should check with you about renting a house."

"Oh yeah?" Chumansky said with a deadpan expression as he continued to approach Henry. Chumansky looked to be in his late thirties and was a good half foot shorter than Henry. But that didn't stop the smaller man from getting as close to Henry as he could. They were almost toe to toe when Henry answered him.

"Is that a problem?" Henry asked, once again answering a question with a question. It was a confrontational inquiry, but he said it in the least threatening manner possible. Henry wasn't looking for a fight; he was looking for a place to live. Chumansky immediately slumped down and took a step backwards.

"Naw, I was just messing around," Chumansky said. Henry had seen guys like this before. Taller men often referred to it as "short man syndrome." Pint-sized guys with an attitude, at least until someone stood up to them or knocked them out.

"Tom Chumansky. Nice to meet you, Henry." Chumansky stuck out his hand. Henry returned the gesture. He could feel the calluses on the man's palm.

This guy might be in the electronics business, Henry thought, but he has spent some time working with his hands, too, more than likely on the farm.

"This is the house right here," Chumansky confirmed as he began walking in that direction. The dogs followed, occasionally jumping on Henry. He wasn't much of a dog lover, but that didn't stop Henry from making an attempt. The problem was, every time he pet one it only encouraged them both to jump on him even more.

"My wife and I just moved out of it a couple of months ago," Chumansky continued. "We finally got the idiot contractors squared away and finished with the new one. You might've seen it when you were coming down the drive."

"Yes, it looked nice back there. Kind of imposing with the woodsy backdrop." Henry dropped the compliment like a butt-kissing used car salesman.

"Thanks. You know, whatever makes the wife happy. And she's happy. For now, anyway. Cost me a fortune, but what the hell. You only live once, right? Can't take the money with you when you clock out, so..."

Chumansky opened the front door of the rental house, and the two men entered the living room. The dogs remained outside.

"We left the old furniture here and put all new stuff in the new house. That's the lazy man's way of moving. The only things you won't have here are a TV and a phone. I can get the electricity and water turned on with a phone call."

Henry was happy to see the furnishings, especially the bed. Otherwise he'd either be sleeping on the floor or driving to Adler to buy an air mattress that evening.

"The sheets on the bed are clean, as are the towels. They're yours to use. There's even a washer and dryer downstairs, so you don't have to haul your clothes to the laundromat. A couple of empty rooms down there, too. Otherwise not much else. Well, maybe a mouse or two. This was a farm, you know." Tom Chumansky was quite the talker.

"Don't do any farming anymore?" Henry asked. He didn't really care, but thought he should pretend like he did.

"When my old man died I phased most of it out and invested in the electronics business. I've got two stores in Adler called Mecca Warehouse. Gadgets, iPods, TVs, headphones, DVD players, CDs...hard to believe we sell any CDs these days, but we do."

"How much you want?" Henry asked, cutting to the chase. He was getting hungry.

"For CDs or for this place?" Chumansky chuckled.

"This place," Henry replied. "I'm more of a radio guy, myself. I prefer a variety."

"I can understand that. But just so you know, you can get outstanding variety on an iPod," Chumansky said.

This guy doesn't miss an opportunity, Henry thought. He was almost scared to find out how much rent Chumansky wanted.

"Two-fifty, including utilities," Chumansky offered, before Henry could ask again. "I won't even charge you a deposit."

"That's a fair price," Henry said. Actually, it's an excellent price, he thought to himself. "You've got yourself a tenant, Mr. Chumansky."

"Mr. Chumansky was my father. Everyone around here calls me Chum," he declared. "Well, everyone except for the darling creature who shares my bed, of course." he added.

"Makes sense...Chum," Henry responded with a smile while reaching into his front pocket. He pulled out a wad of bills and counted out some twenties. "Here's my first month's rent," he said.

"We're already five days into the month," Chum said. "Let's just call it a prorated two hundred."

"Fair enough," Henry replied, handing him ten twenty dollar bills.

"A cash man. I like that. I think we're gonna be buddies," Chum proclaimed.

#

There was one speed limit sign on the county highway leading from Henry's new home back to Gable, and he was pretty sure it read fifty-five, but he couldn't be certain. Nonetheless, he found himself hitting seventy-five during some stretches, and he didn't really care. Henry was so hungry he was beginning to feel sick. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten.

The only parking available for Stubby's Diner was on the street. Henry thought about parking at the Corner Store but didn't want to push his luck before even working an hour for Bruce. He parallel parked on the street and entered Stubby's through the creaky screen door.

It was clear to Henry that Stubby's Diner had been around for a while. The wooden floor was worn. The tables, chairs, and booths looked as though they had been around since the early seventies. The place smelled like burgers and fries. Henry could tell by their uniforms that many of the clientele were first-shifters from the dairy plant in Adler. The rest were older folks having an early dinner.

Henry sat down at a table for two near the middle of the restaurant. The older, portly hostess brought him a glass of water and a menu, and let him know that his server would be with him shortly.

It had only been a couple of hours, but Henry was already growing rather fond of Gable. It seemed quiet, cozy, and unsuspecting. He felt confident he was going to like it here.

"Well, you're new," his waitress proclaimed as she interrupted Henry's thoughts and stood next to him. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her hazel eyes sparkled in the dim light of the mid-afternoon as she smiled.

"Yes," Henry said. "I'm new...I guess." He looked up and returned the smile. She was attractive despite the fact she had been working in a grease pit for God knows how many hours.

"What brings you through town? Business? Family?" she asked, wiping up a wet spot on his table.

"Actually, I just moved here," Henry answered. "Moved into Tom Chumansky's farmhouse just a while ago," he said, pointing with his thumb over his right shoulder.

"Oh, really? Interesting," she said. "Chum, eh? Quite a character, isn't he?"

"That's a fair way of putting it. My name's Henry Fields," he responded, holding his hand out.

"Claire Mathison," she said, shaking his hand delicately. "What are you drinking?"

"Coke would be good. And how are the fish sticks?" He was so hungry he couldn't wait a second longer to get his order in.

Claire inhaled deeply through her nose. "You smell all the grease in here? Fried foods are our specialty. The fish sticks are huge and fried in their own vat so our French fries and onion rings don't taste like Chicken of the Sea."

"Fish sticks it is then," Henry agreed. Claire grinned and walked away through the kitchen door.

Henry leaned back in his chair and took a drink of water. He ran his hand through his brown hair and gazed around the restaurant. The middle-aged barmaid was chatting it up with two older men sitting at the bar. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but these days that didn't mean much. It was just far less likely for a married woman to be ringless than it was for a man.

Two men were sitting in the corner booth, yakking over their beer and nachos. Occasional bellows of laughter would erupt and rapidly die down. Henry guessed they were talking about their boss, but for all he knew they could be talking about him. He was a stranger in this town, and Claire had proved it by immediately picking him out of the afternoon crowd. Maybe this place wasn't such a good idea after all, Henry thought.

Before he had time to contemplate further, Claire was placing a huge glass of Coke on his table. She stood next to him for an extra beat as he thanked her.

"So, how'd you end up in the middle-of-nowhere-Iowa?" she asked, handing him a straw.

Henry wasn't in the mood to construct a backstory at the moment, so he elected to keep things short.

"It's a long story," he said with a sigh. "I'm from out there." Henry pointed towards the door. Claire smiled again. "Being here just kind of happened, I guess," he explained.

"Gable doesn't just happen to people," she said. "Not usually, anyway. I was born and raised here. Went to high school right out there down Highway 57. For some reason, I'm still here. It's like the Mafia. If you're born in it, it's almost impossible to leave."

"Maybe you just haven't found the right reason to leave yet," Henry suggested while picking up his Coke glass.

"Maybe," Claire replied. "Fish sticks are coming in about three minutes," she said, changing the subject and heading to the kitchen.

Henry's meal arrived shortly after and he inhaled it as fast as his mouth would allow him to chew and swallow. Claire was polite but not as chatty while he ate. Traffic was picking up in Stubby's as the evening hours approached. He paid for his twelve dollar tab by laying a twenty on top of the check. As he moved towards the door, Claire called out to him.

"Hey, Henry!" He stopped and turned as she walked up to him. "What was your reason for leaving where you came from?"

This girl is relentless, he thought.

"Fate, I guess," he said with a shrug.

"Wow," Claire said with a wry smile. "You're relentless, Henry."

Henry grinned and shook his head as he opened the door. He was going to like this girl, which was good since she obviously wasn't going anywhere.

"Thanks for stopping by, Mystery Man. Come back and see us soon!"

#

Henry lay down on his new bed and put his hands behind his head. His two duffel bags and backpack were still on the floor next to him where he had dropped them earlier after returning from his meal. It was now nine-thirty in the evening. The house was dark. The entire area was quiet except for the occasional bark from a German shepherd or two. The dogs seemed to be guarding the area and protecting the land from owls, deer, and passing cars.

As Henry drifted off to sleep he chuckled to himself. He wondered what the Vegas odds would have been a month ago that he would end up living on a farm in Iowa, by himself. This wasn't what he'd had in mind when he was growing up. His parents had always led him to believe he could do anything he wanted in life. He'd spent hours daydreaming about being a fireman, a detective, a doctor. Almost every day it was a new career, a new life. Sometimes his daydreams were influenced by a TV show or a movie, like the two-week period he became a Jedi after seeing _Star Wars_ for the first time.

It was nobody's fault he was here now. Henry had stopped playing the blame game a long time ago. Like the saying goes, "Life is twenty percent what happens to you and eighty percent how you react to it." He was reacting to life every day now.

"There's only one thing you can control in this world, son," his father had told him when he graduated from high school. "You. You have total control over your emotions, your words, your actions. You can't stop someone from wronging you, but you have complete control over how you react, or whether you even react at all."

His father was the glue that held the family together. He always had advice for his two sons but never forced anything on them. Sports, camping, hunting, fishing, Boy Scouts; he was close to both of them. And he treated their mother with the respect a woman deserved and needed, helping to keep her sane while raising two boys. There was little doubt she would've preferred a daughter in the mix. She never said a word about it to her sons, but their father more than likely knew. It was as if he always knew exactly what everyone in the house was thinking and feeling at any given moment.

Henry dozed off for the night thinking about how much he missed his father and how he wished he could speak to him now.
**II**

Henry pulled up to the Corner Store at five forty-five the next morning. He wasn't surprised Bruce had yet to arrive. Henry had left plenty early knowing that being late on his first day would not have made a good impression. Five minutes later, Bruce pulled in with his Ford Explorer.

"Here's your copy of the key to this joint," he told Henry as he handed him a key ring with one key on it. "We didn't talk much about a schedule, but it's just you and me splitting this thing up until I get a part-timer to help out."

"Not a problem," Henry replied.

"It means no days off, you know?" Bruce said with a cringe.

"I don't mind. I can use the money."

Henry's boss exhaled. "Whew, I didn't think about it until I went home last night. Thought you might be pissed. The weekends will be some good overtime for you."

Bruce showed Henry how to use the cash register, credit card machine, and gas pumps. By the time Henry felt comfortable, it was six fifteen and customers were already filing in. Some came for gas, but most were there for a morning cup of coffee or a bag of prepackaged donuts. Bruce explained that the Corner Store was more of a mini-grocery store than a convenience store. They didn't carry any ready-made, warm food like hot dogs, taquitos, or nachos. If customers wanted something like that they could go across the street to Stubby's. They also opened at six and provided sit-down breakfasts as well as to-go style foods like breakfast burritos.

"It's a small town thing," Bruce said, summing up his explanation. "Stubby's was in Gable long before this gas station added a food section."

"Stubby still around?" Henry inquired.

"His wife is, but Stubby died about six or seven years ago."

"I assume 'Stubby' wasn't his real name," Henry surmised. He handed a male customer his change for a bottle of water and a small cup of coffee. The customer stopped and turned to Bruce when he overheard Henry.

"I always wondered, what was Stubby's real name?" the customer asked with a smile.

"Rodney was his birth name, and how he got the nickname is kind of inspiring," Bruce began. "Everyone knew him as 'Rodney' or 'Rod' up until when he was about twenty years old and he had an accident. He was a farmer's son, and one day he got his hand caught in a clogged corn picker. Lost the four fingers on his right hand at the first joint."

"This part of the story I've heard," the customer said to Henry while walking towards the door. "It's a good one, though, so keep listening. I'll see you tomorrow!" The man waved and jogged to his car.

"So anyway, Stubby—Rodney—didn't let the missing fingers hold him back much. He had such a sense of humor about it he began referring to his hand as 'old stubby.' That's kind of what the hand looked like with those half-sized fingers: a stub."

"So, the name just stuck?"

"Pretty much," Bruce said. "He told me what happened was one time, someone misunderstood him. They thought he was referring to himself instead of his hand. Which is funny because Stubby always weighed about one sixty soaking wet."

"Not a big guy, eh?" Henry asked.

"Not short, but not fat either. It just goes to show how most people never gave it a second thought. Many of them weren't around here forty years ago when the accident happened. They didn't even realize Stubby had a handicap because he never let it affect him. Once the nickname stuck, I think he stopped referring to his hand at all. It just became a part of him. Which is ironic since he also lost a part of him."

"Good point," Henry said. "Good story, too."

"One hundred percent authentic," Bruce replied. He grabbed his keys and changed the subject, lowering his voice even though no one else was in the store.

"A couple more things before I take off for a while," Bruce began. He moved to the back corner behind the register and reached under the counter. "The silent alarm is set and turned off back here. You might've noticed when we came in, there was no noise. I came back here and turned it off while we were opening. The code is 1221. Don't forget to turn it off when you open this place. Otherwise you'll have an army of trigger-happy, small town law enforcement pointing their guns at you in no time flat. You've got sixty seconds before that silent alarm is triggered."

"Got it," Henry replied with a soft chuckle.

"And speaking of guns," Bruce continued, "I've got this here, too, though I've never had to use it."

He reached under the counter beneath the cash register and pulled out a SIG Pro semi-automatic pistol. He turned to Henry.

"You ever used one of these before, Hank?"

"Probably not one like this," Henry replied, taking the gun from Bruce.

"Just pull the trigger...and don't miss," Bruce instructed, taking the gun and placing it back in its hiding spot.

"I can handle that," Henry said, though he couldn't imagine getting held up in a town this small. Bruce headed to the door.

"I'll be back a bit later to let you grab some lunch while I watch the register," he said. "If you have any questions just call my cell. The number is right behind you on the board."

"Got it," Henry said.

The day flew by more quickly than Henry had expected. Idle chatter with customers kept his mind busy. When the store emptied out, he wandered over to the radio on the shelf behind the counter. He went up and down the dial and finally settled on a classic rock station that was playing a Journey song.

Around ten o'clock a uniformed police officer walked into the store. Henry nodded to him as he entered but wasn't certain the officer had returned the greeting, which seemed strange.

Maybe he didn't see me, Henry thought. The police officer shuffled around the store for a minute or so. Henry tried not to stare, but he couldn't help notice the officer looking his way several times.

What is he doing? Henry wondered. Worse yet, what had Henry done to warrant this attention? He'd been in town for less than twenty-four hours. Had he done something wrong? Was there a problem with his license plate, maybe?

Finally, the officer headed over to the beverage counter and poured a cup of coffee. He emptied two sugars in the cup and secured the lid. On his way to the register he grabbed a fruit pie off a stand. Whatever Henry had done, he was about to find out.

The officer placed his coffee and pie on the counter and began to reach for his wallet. There was a moment, only a split second, where Henry thought he might be reaching for his gun.

"You're new?" the officer asked. His name tag was shining so bright Henry had to squint to read it: JACKSON.

"Yes, I am," Henry responded, reaching for the fruit pie to scan it. "Henry Fields," he said, extending his right hand across the counter. Jackson returned the gesture with a quick shake. Henry also noticed "Sergeant" engraved on his badge.

"John Jackson, Gable Police," he responded. It sounded to Henry like Jackson had spent a lot of time practicing the inflection of that phrase. "When I first walked in I thought you were somebody else," Jackson continued.

Henry's heart sunk to the tips of his toes.

"But then I remembered that guy was six nine. I played basketball against him in high school."

Henry recovered, realizing he had been on high alert for no reason. It was a ridiculous notion anyway, he thought.

Henry chuckled out loud at the thought of playing basketball in high school. Or being six foot nine. Sergeant John Jackson was around forty years old, average height, with a burly build. He had a full head of hair and big, piercing brown eyes. As the policeman left the store with a quick, "see you tomorrow," Henry tried to imagine Jackson playing basketball. The only thing he could come up with was the image of Jackson getting his shot blocked by a giant doppelgänger of Henry.

Around eleven o'clock Bruce returned to give Henry a lunch break. After a quick question and answer session about some job specifics, Henry walked across the street to Stubby's for a meal. As he approached, he saw Claire standing outside the restaurant, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Coke.

"What's up, Mystery Man?" she called out to him.

"First day of work," he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.

"Pumping some gas, printing some lottery tickets," Claire joked, taking a drag of her smoke.

"No gas pumping. I can't even remember the days of full-service stations," Henry shot back.

"That one used to be full-service," she pointed with her cigarette.

"I figured as much." At that moment Henry's stomach gave him a friendly reminder in the form of a growl. "I'm gonna head in for some food," he said. "I didn't have breakfast."

"Grab a menu and I'll be right in to take care of you," Claire said with a smile.

Henry walked through the door and sat down at the same table as the day before, all the while wondering if Claire had just hit on him.

#

Claire chatted with Henry for a moment each time she brought something to his table. Eventually the subject of Chum came up again. Henry told Claire about meeting his new landlord for the first time and moving in to his farmhouse.

"Chum's quite a character, isn't he?" Claire asked while refilling Henry's water. "Almost too much to deal with, at times."

"He definitely has moxie," Henry agreed. "Seems manageable, though."

"Just wait until you meet his main sales guy, Eddie. Now that guy is a real piece of work," Claire explained.

"Lots of personality around here for such a small town," Henry observed. They exchanged smiles as she left for another table.

He didn't mind making a new female friend, or any friend for that matter. The stimulation was good for him. Henry just wasn't sure he wanted things to go any further with Claire than they already had. She seemed genuinely interested in him, but he also knew this was the result of a pretty girl living in a small town her entire life. She was too close to the people in Gable, knew them all too well. A new guy moving to town was something fresh in her mundane life of waiting tables and hearing the same jokes over and over again. Claire now had something to look forward to and explore. Henry knew he was making himself even more appealing to her with his elusiveness. But the alternative was to get Claire to talk more about herself, and he was aware this would have the same effect. It was human nature.

He watched her as she dealt with others in the diner. It didn't matter who she was talking with, she always seemed sincere. There were no crossed arms, no steps backward. She was always leaning into conversations and attentive to her surroundings. No one waited long for a refill or extra napkins. She kept things moving. He figured some of this was the process of working for tips, but there was little doubt waiting tables for a living was not for everyone. Henry had never done it and was certain he never could. Working the register at a gas station was about the best he could do when it came to customer service. It wasn't that he didn't like people. In fact, the problem was he knew and understood people too well. No, Henry liked people. He found them intriguing. That is until they let him down or crossed him. He found it hard to forgive and forget. Fool me once, shame on you because I'm done, he thought to himself.

As he finished his club sandwich and side salad, Claire dropped the check on his table.

"Here you go," she said. "And there's no need to leave me a tip today."

Henry glanced up at her with a confused look. Before he had a chance to reply, Claire spoke again.

"The eight dollars you left for me yesterday will cover today's service, too," she explained.

"I didn't have any change," Henry countered with a wry grin.

"I did," Claire said, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest.

"Your prompt service and conversation were worth extra money to me," he said with a shrug. He knew she was angling at something, but he wasn't sure what it was.

"I appreciate you saying that," she said. "It's not every day someone drops a seventy percent tip on my table. But I prefer keeping things legit. Working here is an honest living and anything more than twenty-five percent feels like a bribe."

Interesting, Henry thought. He considered continuing to make light of things but could tell Claire was dead serious.

"Fair enough," he said. There was only one thing he could think of that anyone would bribe her for, and that just wasn't something Henry would ever do. But he also knew Claire couldn't be sure of this. Especially when he wasn't willing to tell her much about himself.

As Claire walked back to the kitchen to get another customer his lunch, Henry pulled his wallet from his pocket. He had made some change earlier at the Corner Store and would be able to pay for his lunch in the exact amount of the check. Henry liked Claire, but even before her dignity speech he'd had no intention of leaving her eight dollar tips for the rest of whatever. He couldn't afford it. Especially not on minimum wage. He set the money on the table and walked out the door without saying goodbye.

#

Henry finished his first day of work at three in the afternoon when Bruce came back to take over. Instead of spending the money to eat out yet another time, Henry elected to buy some food at the Corner Store to take home for meals. It had been a long first day, and enjoying some relaxing time around his new home might do him some good.

He said goodbye to Bruce and grabbed his shopping bag. It was full of microwave burritos, cereal, bread, cheese, eggs, peanut butter, and milk. When he got back to the house he put the groceries away, took a quick shower, and put some fresh clothes on before exploring the place. Henry hadn't had much time to check out the rest of the house the day before. As Chum had told him, just about everything he needed was already here. A refrigerator, a microwave, even a bed in the second bedroom, not that he was expecting company anytime soon. The closet space was minimal but that didn't matter much to Henry.

He walked down the narrow staircase in the kitchen to the basement. The old steps creaked so much that Henry expected to crash through them with every move he made. When he reached the bottom he noticed a clothes washer and dryer on the left. To the right were two more rooms. He walked into the first one and immediately saw that it was deserted. It had a closet that was also empty. Not that Henry expected to find buried treasure or anything. He was just curious and preferred to be aware of his surroundings.

After discovering the other room was vacant as well, he returned to the kitchen and made himself a peanut butter sandwich. He sat down on the couch, put his glass of milk on the carpeted floor and ate with his plate in his lap. He stared at the empty entertainment center that most likely once housed a television set. From what he had seen, there was no radio in the house, either.

I'm going to need to find a hobby, Henry thought to himself. He soon fell asleep on the couch, still sitting up, with the plate in his lap.
**III**

Over the next few days Henry settled in to Gable, his job, and his new home. One morning he woke up to discover he did, indeed, have a roommate. The plate he had left on the kitchen counter overnight no longer had bread crusts on it. Discovering this sent a chill down Henry's spine. It wasn't that mice frightened him. After all, they were always so fun to watch in cartoons: Mickey, Speedy, Jerry. But there was something creepy about real ones. The way they lived in houses and did as they pleased. And they were never seen by the human eye until after they grabbed that fatal final piece of cheese—Snap!

But Henry had another idea. Something that he hoped would wind up being far more entertaining. One afternoon following work he made a quick trip to the pet store at the northern end of Adler. For a nominal fee Henry adopted a black cat; he named him "Wilson" after Tom Hanks' volleyball friend in the movie _Castaway_. Now he had a real roommate and not a squatter.

Henry hadn't seen Claire since she told him not to tip her so much, but he hadn't been back to Stubby's either. Instead, he had been bringing his lunch to work or buying it at the store. If Bruce came to relieve him he would either sit outside and eat or take a walk up and down Main Street. One day Bruce wasn't able to make it in to give Henry a break, so he just ate behind the counter while continuing to take care of the register. Bruce made it up to him by letting Henry take off an hour early and still paying him for that hour.

When Friday of his first week in Gable rolled around it was time for Henry to work his first night shift. He and Bruce had worked out the schedule: Bruce would work six to three during the day on Friday. Henry would come in from three until eleven and close the store. Then he would return on Saturday morning to work from eight to three. Bruce would then cover the next two shifts so Henry could have some time off over the weekend. Henry would return to work at three until close on Sunday and go back to the day shifts for the week starting Monday morning. Bruce was a married man and had grandchildren to spend time with, but Henry wasn't sure what he'd do with his time off. Working this job hadn't even seemed like work, so far. It was a laid-back gig. People were, in general, nice to him. Or at least they were reserved and quiet, which was fine with Henry.

His first afternoon working at the Corner Store was like the mornings had been. But there were fewer people buying coffee and more buying beer this time of day. It was Friday, after all. Around seven o'clock, an elderly man had a difficult time getting the gas pump to work. Henry locked the door to the store, something Bruce had taught him on his first day, and jogged out to help him. The man was grateful and even came inside after pumping his gas to tell Henry what life was like when he was Henry's age.

The next several hours were uneventful. The sun began to go down and Gable became rather quiet. Henry assumed it was because many people went to Adler for dinner and entertainment. He had also heard about another town north of Gable on Highway 57, called Merchant. It was bigger than Gable, but not nearly as large as Adler.

At eight fifteen, Henry was passing the time listening to the radio when he heard a loud crash outside. He sprinted to the door and opened it, attempting to look up and down the highway. He couldn't see much of anything that way due to the location of the Corner Store building. It seemed no one else had heard the noise, which surprised Henry. If anybody else _had_ heard, they didn't find it urgent enough to investigate. But Henry did.

He reached into his pocket, grabbed his keys, and locked the door to the store. He jogged to the edge of the property and scanned north then south, up and down the highway. When he looked south he noticed something white sticking out of the ditch on the west side. Henry's instinct kicked in and he began a brisk jog down the shoulder of the highway, toward the white object. Had there been a car accident? He couldn't see far enough to tell for certain. The sun had gone down just enough that details from a distance were impossible to see. Henry kept jogging for what seemed like an eternity.

I should've driven my car, he thought to himself.

Finally, Henry reached the scene of what appeared to be a one-car accident. He saw a white sedan planted upside down and nose-first in the ditch. There were other cars pulled over on both sides of the highway, and a few of the drivers were beginning to get out.

"Did you see anything?" Henry called out to them. "Is the driver still in the car?" No one answered but he could tell they were speaking among themselves up on the highway. He stumbled down into the ditch towards the overturned car. There was no fire that he could see, only smoke mixed with clouds of dust and dirt floating through the air from the impact. Henry approached the driver's side door and knelt down. He looked through the empty upside down frame, where there'd once been a window.

"Hello!" Henry yelled into the car. "Anybody in there?" No one answered; the car was empty. The driver and any passengers must have been thrown from the vehicle. Henry stood up and spun around. He began searching for signs of life...or death.

"Anybody out here?" he yelled. "Hello!" Henry could feel his heart racing. His breaths were short and quick. He tried to take a couple of deep ones to prepare himself for what he might see next. The grass was long enough that any person thrown from the car would be hidden. Henry kept moving and yelling in an attempt to find the driver or a passenger. A couple of other men from the cars that had pulled over on the shoulder began coming down to help.

Approximately sixty feet from the car Henry finally spotted something red amidst the tall ditch weeds. He ran over to the area, about ten feet from a barbed-wire fence. The red he had noticed was a man's shirt. The man wearing the shirt was lying on his back, attempting to sit up. As Henry reached him, he called out to the other two men who were searching the area.

"Over here!" he shouted, waving his arms and beginning to help the man in the red shirt sit up. "Was anybody else in the car?" Henry asked. The man seemed more in a daze than in pain.

"No," the man replied. He looked Henry in the eyes as he was finally able to sit straight up. "My arm..."

It was at that exact moment Henry realized the man's left arm was missing. His shoulder was a mass of blood and wreckage. The arm was nowhere in sight. Henry tried to think of a reassuring statement but came up with nothing.

Just then the other men ran up behind Henry and the victim.

"Holy shit!" the heavyset one exclaimed, out of breath from the ninety-foot jog. He stared at the man's bloody socket.

"Is there anyone else?" the second man asked.

"No, just him," Henry answered.

"I've got some towels in my truck. I'll go get them!" The chubby guy hustled back up to the shoulder.

"We've got to get him out of here," the other man said. "I'll go call 911. My phone's in the car."

Something told Henry neither of the men wanted to stick around and look at the victim's injury. He tried not think about it or look at it as he spoke to him.

"What's your name?"

"Alan...Alan Walker," the man answered.

"Do you think you can walk if I help you, Alan?" Henry asked. He wasn't sure if moving him was a good idea. At this point he was working on adrenaline and instinct, not experience. After all, this kind of thing didn't happen to a convenience store clerk every day.

"I think...yes," Alan responded. His black hair was matted down with a combination of blood, sweat, and dirt. He had a deep cut on his forehead that was still bleeding. His eyes were as big as saucers as he continued to stare at Henry for answers.

It surprised Henry that Alan hadn't passed out yet. He must have lost large amounts of blood when his arm was severed. As Henry helped Alan stand, he saw a pool of blood where Alan had been lying. He reached around Alan's waist and let the injured man balance his weight against him. Fifteen seconds felt like fifteen minutes to Henry as they crept to the highway. When they passed the wreckage of the car, Alan turned and looked at it. The look on his face made Henry wonder if the man even understood what had happened. As they reached the edge of the highway, Alan began to lose his balance.

"I can't..." he said as he fell from Henry's grip and to his knees.

He's going to pass out soon, Henry thought.

"An ambulance is on the way," the chubby man said as he hustled to Henry and handed him some towels, as if he were a paramedic. Henry took the towels and looked down at Alan, who was balancing on his knees, swaying from side to side. He was beginning to shake.

"I don't think there's enough time," said Henry. "The ambulance has to be a good twenty minutes away."

"I can drive him there," a female voice piped up. "I was heading to Adler, anyway."

"I'll ride with you," Henry said, completely forgetting he was supposed to be working. "What color is your car?" he asked her.

"Silver," the woman replied. She looked to be in her mid-fifties. "It's a Murano."

The man who called the ambulance had also made his way over. Henry turned to him and asked, "Can you call 911 again? Ask them to tell the ambulance to be on the lookout for a silver Murano heading south, flashing its brights."

The man nodded, pulled his phone from his pocket, and walked back to the shoulder to make the call. Alan was lying down on the ground again, this time on his side—the side that still had an arm. He was conscious, but his breathing was labored and he was beginning to shut his eyes for brief periods. Henry enlisted two more men who had pulled their cars over to carry Alan to the backseat of the woman's car. He gave them two towels and kept one for himself.

"I'll be right back," he told them. "Just give me sixty seconds." Henry ran down the ditch in the direction of the overturned car. He tried looking inside through the glassless, passenger-side window but couldn't see much of anything. Nightfall was continuing to creep down on the countryside.

Wrong side, anyway, Henry thought to himself. He darted to the driver's side, where he had first looked for victims. He reached inside and felt along the roof that was now on the ground. He reached up to the floor. Nothing. As Henry pulled his arm out of the car, it brushed against the seatbelt. He could immediately tell it wasn't just an empty harness. He looked up and saw Alan's arm in a bloody, tangled mess of nylon mesh.

Henry didn't have time to think about how nauseating and surreal this was going to be. He reached up and began untangling the arm. The skin was cool. As he worked at twisting it out of the seatbelt, Henry could feel the flesh and bone protruding from the severed limb, but at least it didn't take long to free it. Henry wrapped the arm in the towel and sprinted back up to the highway. The lady in the silver Murano had pulled up to the shoulder and was waiting for Henry.

"Could you pop the hatch, please?" he called out to her. Henry figured it might not be a good idea to make Alan ride shotgun with his arm. He placed it in the back, still swaddled in the towel, and closed the hatch door. He scurried into the backseat and squeezed in next to where Alan was stretched out.

"Let's go!" Henry exclaimed. The woman pulled onto the highway and began to pick up speed. Alan had passed out. There were two towels near his wound. It looked to Henry as though Alan had been trying to apply pressure to it. Henry pressed his own hand hard against the bloody towels.

"What's your name?" the woman asked.

"My name's Henry. His name is Alan," he answered.

"I'm Rose," she offered. "You do this often?" She caught Henry off guard with her sense of humor, but he managed a soft chuckle when he replied.

"I can't say that I do," he said. "First time, actually."

"Me, too," Rose said. "So I assume your plan is to shorten the ambulance's drive time and get Alan to some EMTs faster?"

"It might not be standard operating procedure in an emergency situation, but it made sense to me at the time," Henry explained.

"Makes perfect sense to me," Rose agreed. "How's he doing back there?"

"I'm no doctor, but I'd say he needs professional medical attention soon."

"Then it's a good thing we're doing this," Rose replied. A few seconds of silence passed, then she spoke again. "Did you put what I think you put back there, in the towel?"

Henry looked down at Alan. He was still passed out.

"Yeah," he answered. "I figured if there was any hope..."

"You did the right thing," Rose told him. "A good thing."

Up ahead and off in the distance, a vehicle was approaching. Rose and Henry noticed it through the twilight at the same time.

"There's the ambulance!" Henry exclaimed.

"Flashing my brights!" Rose reported.

Within seconds, the ambulance and the Murano met nose to nose on the right shoulder of Highway 57. Henry jumped out immediately and stood by the door. He hadn't let up the pressure on Alan's wound until now.

"He's in the backseat here!" he shouted to the paramedics. One of them came over immediately and stood face to face with Henry. He was an African-American of average height and build, and he was all business.

"What do we have here?" he asked.

"He was in a car accident about seven or eight miles north of here. Looks like he was thrown from the vehicle. When I found him his arm was missing. I think it got caught in the seatbelt. The accident happened roughly thirty minutes ago. His name is Alan Walker."

Henry stepped aside and let the paramedic look in on the injured man.

"I've been trying to keep pressure on it," Henry explained. He's been passed out for maybe ten to twelve minutes."

The paramedic pulled his head out from the vehicle and waved to the other two paramedics, who were bringing the gurney. He turned to Henry again.

"Only ten minutes or so?"

"Give or take, I'd say. Is that bad?" Henry had no idea. All this stuff he had been doing was guesswork. He had never broken a bone, never had surgery, and never spent any time in a hospital other than to visit someone.

"No, I wouldn't say so. But it's not necessarily good either. Just a bit unusual," the EMT explained. He pulled Henry aside a few more feet as the other paramedics began to move Alan out from the backseat and onto the stretcher.

"Hey, uh...you wouldn't happen to have recovered the severed limb, would you?" he asked.

Henry had almost forgotten.

"Yes, yes I did." he replied, moving to the back of the vehicle. The hatch was still unlocked and Henry raised the door. Not requiring a cue, the paramedic immediately leaned in and pulled back the bloody towel to confirm it was, indeed, a human arm.

"We'll take this with us," he explained, folding the towel back around Alan's arm and picking it up.

"Of course," Henry said. The paramedic took the towel-wrapped appendage to the back of the ambulance, where the other two EMTs had just transferred Alan. Henry stood by the driver's side door of the Murano and waited to see if they needed anything else. Rose rolled down the window.

"Looks like it's out of our control now," she said.

"I guess so," Henry sighed. "I hope he's okay."

"You did your part," Rose assured him. Just then the African-American paramedic jumped into the driver's seat of the ambulance. As he did, he gave Henry a quick wave of the hand as if to say "thanks." Henry waved back.

"Did you want to follow them to the hospital and find out how things turn out?" Rose asked Henry as the ambulance U-turned onto the highway and sped away with the lights flashing and siren blaring.

All of a sudden, Henry remembered what he had been doing less than forty-five minutes earlier.

"I can't," he said. "I need to get back to work. Can I talk you into driving back to Gable?"

Henry was grateful when Rose didn't hesitate to accommodate him. On the way he explained everything to her. He told her how he had been working at the store when he heard the accident and instinctively ran up the highway to investigate.

Rose was a saleswoman who lived in Adler and had been on her way home from a business dinner in Merchant. When she noticed several cars pulled over on the highway she only slowed down to be safe, at first. But when she discovered what had happened, she elected to pull over and see if she could help.

When they drove past the accident scene again, there were two Gable Police cars on the shoulder, lights flashing. Henry thought one of the policeman might be Sergeant Jackson, though he couldn't tell for sure in the darkness.

When they pulled up to the Corner Store, all looked the same to Henry as when he had left it a little more than an hour ago. He turned to Rose and thanked her for helping and for bringing him back.

"Don't mention it," she said. "You would've done the same for me or anyone else."

Henry wasn't quite sure how Rose knew this, but he felt certain she was right.

"By the way," he remembered, "you're gonna have some blood on the seat back there." Henry looked down at his shirt; it had several spots on it, too.

"That's not a problem either," Rose replied. "It's a company car, and I'm due for a detail cleaning from top to bottom. Company dime!"

Henry thanked her again and got out of the car. He unlocked the door to the Corner Store as she drove away. There was no telling how many customers he had missed while he had been gone, if any. He would have to come clean with Bruce, but it could wait until tomorrow afternoon. Henry only hoped it wouldn't cost him his job. Bruce seemed like a reasonable guy, but you never can be too certain about people. This much Henry knew from experience. A lot of experience.

He saw three customers before closing. Only two came inside the store, both to buy beer. It was dumb luck neither of them noticed the bloodstains on his shirt because Henry didn't have the energy to explain himself. When Rose dropped him off he realized just how worn out he was from the experience he had just had. His body wasn't tired, but he was feeling emotionally drained. Henry had turned off every other thought or feeling he had in his mind to concentrate on the situation at hand. Now that the ordeal was over and he had time to process what had happened, it was overwhelming.

At eleven o'clock sharp Henry set the store alarm, locked the door, and fell into his car. The drive to his house was relaxing. So relaxing, in fact, that he had to struggle to stay awake. When he walked through the front door of the house, Wilson immediately greeted him with four meows. Henry replied with a couple meows of his own and filled his cat's food bowl. Then he poured some cornflakes in a cereal bowl for himself and took it with him to his bedroom while he changed clothes. He peeled off the bloody shirt and threw it in a corner. Henry knew he would more than likely end up throwing it away, but he didn't want to think about it at the moment.

After putting on a pair of shorts and finishing his cereal, he crawled into bed. On cue, Wilson jumped on the comforter and curled up behind Henry's knees. They were both happy to be in bed. All was quiet.

And then there was a knock at the door. Henry had already dozed off and wasn't sure if he was having a dream. He waited and listened. Another knock. It was real.

Henry rolled out of bed; Wilson followed behind. There was another knock before he got to the door.

"I'm coming," he growled. He thought for a minute how if he still lived in a city he wouldn't even be answering it.

When Henry opened the door he was surprised to see Claire, standing on the top step, holding a bottle of white wine and two glasses.

"Howdy stranger," she said.
**IV**

"I kind of feel like I owe you an apology," Claire explained. She batted her eyelashes just a bit and flashed Henry a smile. "Can I come in?" she asked.

"Well, I guess," he said. "I had a long day, but..."

Claire walked into the living room, not giving him a chance to finish his sentence. She stood behind Henry while he closed the door.

"The place looks good," she commented. "Similar to how Chum had it. Want some wine?" She walked to the kitchen bar and set the bottle and glasses down. Then she reached into the back pocket of her jeans.

"I even brought a corkscrew."

"I'm not much of a drinker," Henry confessed as he followed her to the kitchen.

"More for me then, I guess," Claire replied, wrestling the cork from the bottle. Henry watched as she poured a large glass. She then took the second glass and poured a small amount, handing it to Henry.

"Just in case," she said with a smile and took the large glass for herself, strolling back to the living room. She pounced on the couch and took a drink as Henry sat down next to her.

"Forgive me for slowing things down here, but...you've been in here before?" Henry asked. Claire nodded.

"Several times," she said. "Chum throws a party every few months and invites the entire town. I mean, not everyone shows up, but it's always a good time. Lots of booze and food. Usually roasts a pig. It's pretty freaky to pull the meat for your sandwich from something that's staring at the guests."

"That does sound...different," Henry said. He'd never been a fan of eating anything that still had eyes. Claire laughed at his response.

"Of course, if you drink enough first you'll be so hungry you won't care where your food is coming from," she added, taking another swallow of her wine. Henry placed his glass on the coffee table in front of them.

"You say you owe me an apology?" he asked. Claire took another quick sip and set her glass on the coffee table next to Henry's.

"The other day when I got on your case about the big tip you left me," she began, "that wasn't fair."

Henry shrugged.

"You hadn't done anything to deserve that kind of attitude from me," Claire continued. "I gave you good service and you tipped me what you felt it was worth. There's nothing wrong with that. I just have...issues."

"It's no big deal," Henry said. "We all have little things that set us off."

Claire's eyes lingered on Henry's during a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. She rubbed her left wrist with her right hand.

"I haven't seen you in a few days," she said in a softer tone. "I thought maybe I'd scared you off."

Henry wondered if it was customary for her to stop by a customer's house with a bottle of wine to apologize for her peculiar behavior. He decided against posing the question out loud.

"No, no," Henry replied. "I've just been getting settled into a routine and stuff. Nothing personal."

Claire reached for her glass of wine.

"You not been eating any meals this week then or what?" she asked him with a wink.

Henry playfully threw his hands in the air.

"Hey, I can't afford to eat out every day," he said. "Besides, walking across the street goes both ways, you know? We have donuts, wine, and cigarettes. You should stop by sometime."

You can even tip me, Henry thought to himself, but elected not to say it.

"Hi, kitty-kitty! How are you?" Claire blurted as Wilson walked into the room, helping to change the subject.

"That's Wilson," Henry explained to her. "He's new in town, too."

"He's cute," she said. "Come here, Wilson." Claire made some kiss noises and the cat jumped on her lap.

"I guess he knows his name," Henry said.

"Or he knows a good thing when he sees it," Claire countered. She began petting Wilson on the head and scratching his ears. It wasn't long before he was purring. "You don't seem like a cat-guy," she continued.

"He earns his keep by scaring the mice. Living on a farm doesn't come without a price," Henry explained as he stood up and stretched.

"You're a poet and didn't know it," Claire said, laughing.

Henry thought about it for a moment before he realized what she was referring to.

"I guess you're right," he said and chuckled. "Sorry. I'm a little slow right now. I had a long day."

"You need to talk about it?"

"I need to sleep."

"Is that a hint?"

"Just a fact, ma'am."

The laughter the two continued to share proved they were becoming increasingly comfortable with each other. Henry sat down next to Claire again and began telling her about the evening's events. As he did, Claire listened intently. By the time he had finished the story her mouth was gaping, wide open.

"So you have no idea what happened to him?" she asked.

"I don't," Henry said.

"You might've saved his life!" Claire exclaimed.

"Well, there were other people there," he said.

"Yes, but you said yourself they weren't being terribly energetic," she replied.

Henry shrugged and yawned. He looked at the clock. It was twelve thirty. He needed to get some sleep, but he knew Claire had other ideas.

"You had to touch—carry—his detached arm...pulled it out from the car? That's so...weird," she said.

"I try not to make it a habit," Henry replied. By now Claire had finished her glass of wine and had almost consumed another. Henry was also certain she'd had a glass before she knocked on his door. Some liquid courage, so to speak. There was another short, uncomfortable silence before Henry finally spoke again. "I don't mean to seem rude, but I really need to get some sleep." Claire's eyes widened.

"I came here for a reason," she explained as she slid closer to Henry. Wilson didn't appreciate the juggling. He ended his extended stay by jumping from Claire's lap to the floor and returning to the bedroom. Henry knew what Claire meant, but elected to force it out of her.

"I thought we established that already," he replied.

"We did, but there's more," Claire began. "I need to tell you..." She looked down at the floor. "...that I am attracted to you." She finished the sentence by looking back up and into Henry's eyes.

Henry smiled.

"I'm flattered," he said.

"But..." Claire said. Henry held his smile.

"There's no 'but,'" he insisted.

"You didn't say it back," she said.

"You're not a patient person, are you?" Henry said without thinking first.

"Who is?" Claire responded, leaning in and pressing her lips against Henry's. They held the kiss for a few seconds before Henry pulled back.

"Was it that bad?" she said with a strained look on her face.

Henry grabbed one of her hands and held it while placing his other hand just above her knee. He leaned back in. Not so much that she would expect another kiss, just enough that she would know he was serious.

"Claire," he began, "I am attracted to you, too. I'm just not the kind of guy who takes advantage of situations." Claire raised an eyebrow at him. Henry went on to explain himself. "Rushing into intimacy is never a good idea," he said. "It complicates things."

She smiled and leaned a bit closer to him.

"I agree," she said, "that's why I'm perfectly fine with just making out." Claire placed her mouth back on his and this time slipped her tongue between his lips. Henry reciprocated, but only for a few seconds before pulling away.

"Ok, ok," he said, "that's good, that's good."

Claire gave him another perplexed look, as if to ask for another explanation. Henry obliged.

"I can already tell you I enjoy kissing you. But Claire, I don't think right now, at this moment, is a good idea."

She leaned back and let out a heavy sigh.

"Rejected," she said.

"How can you call this a rejection?" Henry asked. He had spent enough time around women to know the routine. But understanding them was a completely different story. This was getting ridiculous, and he was tired. Drained.

"Claire," he said, moving closer to her. "Would you be willing to just lie here with me tonight?" Henry put his arm around her and pulled her closer. Claire placed her head on his shoulder.

"Maybe," she answered.

"Let's just slow things down," he told her. "There's no hurry." Henry kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like strawberries. He lingered for an extra second. They lay down next to each other on the couch, Claire on the outside, Henry behind her with his arm around her waist.

"I still don't know anything about you," she whispered.

"I don't know much about you either," Henry reminded her. "But since you've put yourself out there the way you have tonight, I'm willing to offer you something in return." He paused for a moment. "A while back I had a pretty good job," he began. "It paid well, provided good benefits, and had lots of flexibility. Life was pretty good. But something happened that changed my mind about all of it. Now I live my life day-to-day, paycheck-to-paycheck, more or less."

"That sucks," Claire whispered. She pressed herself back against Henry.

He gripped her tighter, his face in her light brown hair, until they both fell asleep. Henry's sleep was restless as he dreamed a cloudy haze of car accidents, missing body parts, and girls with raging hormones. At three thirty in the morning, he woke up. His body was stiff and sore from being in the same position for several hours. He eased himself over and out of Claire's grasp, leaving her to sleep comfortably on her own. He took the afghan and draped it over her before retiring to his bedroom.

#

At seven fifteen, Henry woke up to some mid-morning nuzzling from Wilson. When he looked at the clock, he bolted out of bed and beelined for the shower. As he left the bedroom he could see the couch was no longer occupied and the wine glasses were still on the coffee table. The half empty wine bottle remained on the kitchen bar. Henry wasn't surprised Claire had taken off. In fact, he was kind of glad. It would've been awkward pushing her out the door so he could go to work. But he did feel as though they had accomplished a slight breakthrough last night. For what it was worth, he was still uncertain.

After taking a ninety-second shower, Henry dressed, filled Wilson's food bowl, and grabbed a banana before heading out the door. The sun was already bright in the sky when he pulled his car away from the farmhouse. There was little doubt that working all these hours was tiring. But he'd finally get twenty-four hours to himself this afternoon to do whatever it is he might want to do.

As he drove to town, Henry found himself thinking more about Claire. It was clear to him there was more behind Claire's "don't tip me so much" rant. But pushing the envelope on such a thing last night could've been disastrous. She was certainly an aggressive young woman. But Henry also knew there was an underlying sensitivity about her. Or maybe that was just because she was a waitress and pretended to care too much—for tips. He wasn't quite sure yet, but the irony was not lost on him.

Henry also wondered how poor Alan Walker was doing. It was crazy enough to untangle and carry a guy's severed arm around a crash site. But Henry couldn't imagine what it must've been like to be driving down the road without a care in the world and out of nowhere have an arm ripped from your body while being thrown from your car. He remembered reading once about a man who was mountain climbing alone. Somehow he ended up with his hand and forearm stuck under a rock. In order to free himself and survive, the man had to cut his own hand off. It was mind-blowing and nauseating to think about. Henry wouldn't wish something like that on his worst enemy.

At seven fifty-five, Henry turned off Main Street and into the north side of the Corner Store lot. This area had become his personal parking spot. It kept his vehicle out of the customers' way and gave him easy access to head home when his shift ended.

After getting out of his car, Henry began the short walk to the front of the store. When he turned the corner he was surprised to see Bruce's Explorer parked near the front door. On the other side of it was a Channel 6 TV news van. Henry looked inside the store before entering and saw Bruce talking to a female reporter and a cameraman. His boss spotted him through the glass and waved him in.
**V**

"Get in here, Hank!" Bruce exclaimed with a grin. "We've been waiting for you. It sounds like you had quite a night last night."

Henry walked through the door and let it close behind him. The newswoman was holding a microphone and smiling at him while the cameraman pointed the big camera in his direction.

"I guess I did," he agreed.

"You probably don't know Balinda Simmons," Bruce explained. "She's with Channel 6 in Adler. And this is Craig with the camera. They heard about your heroics last night and wanted to talk to you about what happened."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "Heroics?" he said.

"Yes," Balinda Simmons piped up. "You saved a man's life!"

Henry had never been a big fan of the news media. Most everything they reported seemed one-sided or at the very least slanted in a direction, probably to meet an agenda. Henry looked at Bruce and spoke, lowering his voice, "Can I speak to you for a minute, boss?"

"Of course," he replied. After asking Balinda and Craig to wait outside, Bruce turned back to Henry. "What's up?" he asked.

"I really don't want to be on TV," Henry explained.

"What do you mean? This is great! You did an awesome thing last night—at least from what I understand. You should be proud of yourself!"

This was going to be more difficult than Henry thought.

"You realize I locked the store up during business hours to do this, right?"

"That's the beauty of it all," Bruce explained. "Saving a guy's life was far more important to the Corner Store than making a few bucks!"

For years Henry had operated under the assumption that the only things people cared about were themselves and how they could benefit, personally, from a particular situation. Bruce seemed no different than the rest of them.

"It's just that I'm extremely camera shy," Henry explained, trying to sound as desperate as possible. "I passed out during a televised spelling bee in sixth grade."

Bruce's arms were crossed and he was stroking his chin, trying to figure out how to cash in on this opportunity for his business. Henry really couldn't blame him. Owning a business had to be a constant battle of sleepless nights and bottled friends. Something like this could be good exposure for the Corner Store. It wouldn't make Bruce a millionaire, but it could bring a spike in sales for a few days. While the story was still fresh, people might travel an extra twenty minutes out of their way to get some gas for the chance to meet a real-life hero.

"All right," Bruce said, "let's see what we can do about this. Stay here for a minute." He walked outside and over to the Channel 6 van. Henry could see him speaking to Balinda Simmons and her camera guy. As he watched their pow-wow, a customer strolled through the door for a cup of coffee and some donuts. Henry quickly went behind the register and handled the transaction. It was, after all, his shift.

As the customer walked out, Bruce and the news duo walked back in. Craig still had his camera.

"I'm hoping we have a compromise worked out here, Hank," Bruce said. He went on to explain that the news team would still like to interview Henry but would be willing to do so off camera, recording only his audio.

"We'd really love to hear what happened in your words," Balinda explained with a hopeful look on her face. She was about five six with her heels on, blonde and attractive, with rosy-red lips. Henry succumbed.

"I guess I can do that," he obliged.

"Excellent!" Balinda clapped her hands together in excitement.

"Is he ok?" Henry asked her. For a brief moment, she looked puzzled.

"Oh, uh...yes, yes," Balinda said. "He was in surgery all night. They reattached his arm. So far everything looks to have been successful."

"That's great to hear," he replied. At the time of the accident, Henry wasn't sure there was any possibility of Alan's arm being reattached, but going back to get it seemed like the right thing to do. It wasn't like Alan was in any condition to remember it.

Balinda and Craig quickly set up their equipment and turned to Henry for the interview. She stood next to Henry while Craig adjusted audio levels.

"I'm here with Henry Fields who is an attendant at the Corner Store in Gable. Henry was first on the scene of a one-car accident on Highway 57 around eight fifteen yesterday evening. Henry, can you tell us how things happened from your perspective?"

Balinda Simmons thrust the microphone in Henry's face and he went on to tell his story. Bruce stood behind the counter and listened. When Henry was finished, the reporter spoke again.

"Henry Fields, a true hero right here in small town Iowa. I'm Balinda Simmons reporting in Gable for Channel 6, Adler."

"Clear," Craig reported.

"Great. Thank you so much, Henry," Balinda said, holding her hand out. "You did a superb job for a man who doesn't like being on camera. Most people enjoy this kind of recognition."

Henry returned the handshake.

"Well, thanks," he replied. "I'm just not that interested in being a 'hero.' This was all quite a shock to me so early in the morning."

"Well, you can thank Rose McNeely for the exposure," Balinda explained. "After she dropped you off here last night she went to the hospital to follow up on Alan, the victim's, condition. She couldn't stop singing your praises to the doctors and nurses, and word got back to us."

Henry wasn't surprised. Rose had seemed like a very nice lady. He could've done without the attention, though. Was it really this difficult to stay off the grid, even in Iowa?

"She was very helpful last night," Henry said, heading over to the cash register to take over his shift. Balinda and Craig thanked Henry and Bruce one more time before leaving the store.

After finishing a transaction with a customer, Henry turned to his boss. "I'm really sorry about locking the store down last night," he told him. "I just reacted on instinct. I mean, it wasn't busy at all. But that's no excuse..."

Bruce responded by patting Henry on the back. "I already told you, it's not a problem," he assured him. "You did a good thing last night. It was all for a good cause. You're a good Samaritan and you should be proud. I'm proud of you, Hank! So proud, in fact, that I'm going to pay you for your first week of work today when I come in at three. Sound good?"

"Sounds great, thanks!" Henry said. Bruce really was starting to seem like a pretty good guy and boss, but it was still too early to tell for certain. Henry was always looking for signs.

Bruce left Henry to his shift a few minutes later, giving him an opportunity to sit down and reflect. It didn't feel like he had slowed down much at all since hearing the car accident twelve hours ago. Rushing up the highway to help, thinking fast on his feet, riding with Rose towards the ambulance and then back to the store, finishing his shift, and so on. Sure, he made it to bed. Twice. But the quality of sleep was nowhere near up to par.

Henry was emotionally exhausted more than anything. He hadn't been in town a full week yet and he had already helped a car accident victim, been interviewed on TV, bought a cat, and almost had sex. Certainly not under the radar, by any definition. He hadn't meant to get so involved. Responding to the car accident was by complete chance as was the unfortunate arrival of Balinda Simmons. It was simply in Henry's nature to help. Most people spend so much time worrying about themselves they rarely pay attention when an opportunity presents itself to help others. On the surface, Henry played the game with other people the way he should by being polite, complimentary, helpful, and interested in their lives. The problem was Henry could see through most people's crap. It drove him nuts to have to be phony himself to deal with a phony world. But the alternative was speaking his mind and becoming completely transparent. And that just wouldn't fly in most situations.

When Henry was in middle school, his father was fired from his job as the operations manager of a trucking business. The company had hired some consultants to come in and tell them what they were doing wrong and how they could do things better. Henry's father was caught in the cross-fire of the changes. It wasn't that they wanted to fire him, but his father was so openly opposed to many of the changes that were being mandated, his employer felt it was best to part ways with him after ten years of service. Three years later the company went out of business. Henry had just turned sixteen and was looking for his first job at the time, so the subject of his father's dismissal was a good dinner topic one evening.

"Does it make you feel better knowing they went under after you tried to tell them they were wrong about so many things?" Henry asked his father.

"It makes me feel better because they did me a favor," his dad explained. "If they had kept me around, I would now be known as the guy who helped sink it."

"But that wouldn't have been true," Henry replied.

"No, probably not. But how would anybody else know that? It's like being on a bad football team. Is it the coaching that stinks? The players? The ownership?"

"You had a lot of the answers. You could've helped them," Henry said.

"I could've if they were willing to listen. But they weren't."

The pained look on Henry's face told his father to explain more.

"Son, the one regret I have—the one lesson I learned from this experience is—you can talk and plead all you want, but if you're talking and pleading with someone who has already made up their mind, you're wasting your time and energy. Always assess a situation before opening your heart and mind to anyone. You simply have to know what they will do with what you provide them, or if they even care."

"In other words, lie?" Henry suggested.

"Be in control," his father clarified. "I should've shut up and looked for another job. Instead, I let my emotions get the best of me and had the door shown to me."

The situation with Claire was one that probably could've been easily avoided had Henry not tipped her eight dollars. This gave her a reason to roll out the drama and let him know up front she had more baggage than JFK International. This wasn't intentional. She was only trying to get Henry to notice her. It was like a boy pulling a girl's hair on a playground because he likes her. Henry was thinking things might be better if she had simply pulled his hair.

When she didn't see him for several days, Claire worried she had run him off with her outburst. Naturally, she overcompensated for this concern by getting drunk and throwing herself at him. Henry liked Claire despite what he already knew about her. He was only human. And he was attracted to her, of course. But getting wrapped up in an intimate relationship was at the bottom of his to-do list right now.

Around nine o'clock, Sergeant Jackson strolled into the Corner Store for his morning cup of joe. The door had yet to close behind him when he began speaking.

"Rumor has it our little town has a new hero," he belted in Henry's direction.

"I don't know if I'd call it that, but you know how the media is," Henry replied.

"At least they're not calling you a 'super hero,'" Jackson said, walking to the coffee machine. "I've always found capes to be kind of femmy."

"There really aren't a lot of them that don't wear a cape, are there?" Henry mused.

"You almost sound like you believe in superheroes," Jackson said, laughing.

"No, no. Not anymore," Henry admitted. "I used to know a lot of adults who probably did, but I'm not one of them."

"I know what you mean," Jackson said. "I've worked a comic convention before. Strange folks, most of them." He finished pouring his coffee, added his sugars, and grabbed a fruit pie while heading to the register. "Sounds like you were involved in quite an ordeal last night," he said.

"Let's put it this way," Henry replied, "I'm hoping it doesn't happen again tonight."

"You and me both," Jackson commented while handing a five dollar bill over the counter. "I was lucky enough to be off duty and at home in Adler during that one."

"I could've used your help," Henry said.

"Sounds like you did okay."

"Flying blind," Henry admitted. "Everything I did was either instinct or something I saw on an episode of _ER_."

"Pretty gruesome, wasn't it?" Jackson asked with frown. "I remember the first bloody call I got sent to," he recalled. "Suicide attempt. Gunshot to the chin."

"Attempt?" Henry clarified.

"Yup. He lived. Three-fourths of his face was gone. It was just a giant, bloody crater. His tongue was hanging halfway down his chest. Shortly after we arrived and the paramedics began working on him, the guy started digging into what used to be his face to try and clear an airway and help himself breathe."

"Wow," Henry said, handing Jackson his change. "That tops last night by a mile."

"What's sad is I've seen worse, but I won't bore you with the details now," Sergeant Jackson said as he opened the front door. "I've got to get back to business."

Suddenly, Henry felt a jolt in his memory.

"Wonder Woman!" he blurted out.

Jackson stopped, the door still open. "What's that?" the police officer asked.

"Wonder Woman doesn't wear a cape," Henry said with conviction. Jackson considered this for a moment before replying.

"I tell you capes are femmy, and the first superhero you come up with that doesn't wear one is a woman?" He chuckled.

"I'd look weird in that outfit of hers, wouldn't I?" Henry said with a chuckle of his own.

"See you later, superhero," Jackson said as he walked out the door with a smile.

Henry was glad to see Jackson had a sense of humor. In the past, he hadn't received any warm and fuzzies from police officers. His first experience with one set the tone for years to come.

One snowy winter night, eleven-year-old Henry was lying in bed. He had just fallen asleep when someone came to the front door. The sound of the doorbell woke Henry, but he didn't think much of it and began going back to sleep. That is, until his mother opened his bedroom door and told him there was a police officer outside who wanted to speak to him about a stolen motorbike.

The officer claimed he had followed a set of footprints in the snow from where the bike was stolen, and the tracks led directly to their front door. He had not stolen the motorbike, but when Henry told this to the policeman it was, of course, not good enough for him. He asked to see Henry's snow boots for comparison's sake.

Even though Henry was innocent, he was flooded with overwhelming emotion at the thought of having to prove it. This police officer came to his family's home believing that a thief had recently walked into it. Despite the principle of being innocent until proven guilty, Henry received a vibe from the officer that was the complete opposite. It felt more to him like the policeman was saying, "I've got you, you crooked little brat and I'm gonna prove it." Henry wondered what life would be like for his parents after he became the first sixth grader in the neighborhood to go to juvie.

Thankfully, the officer was honest enough after a ten-minute investigation to come back to the house and admit he was wrong. For starters, Henry wore a size nine. The original footprints the policeman was tracking were much smaller. Apparently, the prints Henry had made on his walk home from school had blended at some point with the footprints the officer followed from the scene of the crime.

Of course there was no apology, no thank you for helping. Just a quick explanation and he was on his way. Even at the age of eleven, Henry thought it was strange the policeman didn't notice the change in print size while he was sleuthing through the neighborhood. Or maybe he didn't want to notice. Maybe he liked scaring the crap out of children. Or maybe he was just so hell-bent on catching the bad guy that he missed the obvious clues that would have pointed him in a different direction.

Henry never heard what happened, if the motorbike was ever found. There were plenty of candidates in the area, but whether or not the police officer matched up the tracks with the culprit was a mystery. Maybe he just successfully pinned it on some other innocent boy.

Suddenly, the store phone rang. It startled Henry so much he jumped slightly from his chair.

"Corner Store," he answered.

"Hey, Henry. You're just the guy I was looking for. This is your buddy and landlord, Tom Chumansky."

Strange. I wonder what he wants, Henry thought to himself.

"Hi, Chum," he replied. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I'm having a little get-together tonight at my house and I wanted to invite the local hero to join us," Chum explained.

"News travels fast in a small town," Henry said.

"That it does," Chum agreed. "It's hard to keep a secret around here. So, look, all the food and booze is provided by me. All you have to do is bring yourself. Dress casual. I'm not into that stuffy, formal shit. We live in a field for God's sake, right? We usually just hang out, tell stories. Nothing too crazy. Seven o'clock. What do you say?"

"Aw man, Chum. I'm still pretty tired from last night," Henry explained. It wasn't a lie. "I just don't know. It might be a better idea for me to get a good night's sleep."

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Henry," Chum said. "Besides, I know where you live. If you don't show up, I'll just bring the party to you. It wouldn't be the first time we've had one at that house."

Just then, the door to the Corner Store opened and Claire walked in. She smiled at Henry but said nothing, noticing he was on the phone. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing her work clothes. She walked to the register and stood in front of Henry, still smiling. He returned her smile as he spoke to Chum.

"Can I bring a guest?"
**VI**

When Henry's shift was over at three, Bruce came in to manage the store and pay his only employee for his first week of work. As promised during their initial meeting, he paid Henry in cash. It was a thick block of money.

"I didn't think you'd want it all in hundreds, so I gave you a little of everything," Bruce explained.

"No problem," Henry replied. "It all spends the same."

"That's true," Bruce agreed. He grabbed a plastic merchandise bag and handed it to Henry. "It doesn't matter how small the town is—you'll look suspicious carrying a big wad of cash around." Henry took the bag and placed his money in it. Bruce continued speaking, "Big plans tonight?"

"Chum invited me to his place for a party or...whatever you want to call it," Henry said. "I think I'm going to try and sneak a nap in and then go over there for a while."

Bruce smiled. "Ah, yes. Chum and his parties. You'll meet some interesting people, that's for sure," he said. "You never know what might happen when you hang out with him."

"I figured as much," Henry said. "I'll keep my guard up."

After saying goodbye, Henry drove home and did exactly what he told Bruce he would: he took a two-and-a-half-hour nap. At five thirty his alarm went off. He was still groggy and felt like he could've slept another eight hours. After jumping in the shower and putting on some fresh clothes, he felt better.

Claire arrived at the house a few minutes before seven o'clock. She was dressed in white capris, a navy blue button-down blouse, and white tennis shoes. Her hair was down and Henry could tell she had used a curling iron to style it.

"Is this a date?" Claire asked when Henry opened the door. He was wearing blue jeans and a dark red polo.

"And hello to you, Claire," he answered her with a smile. "I thought we agreed we were taking things slow."

"No. You said that," she corrected him. "Technically, I never agreed."

"You can call it whatever you want," he told her.

They agreed to walk the quarter mile to Chum's new house along the extended gravel road. On the way they discussed the day's events at their respective jobs, almost like a married couple would. Henry told Claire about Balinda Walker's visit to the Corner Store and how he had to work around being on TV.

"I thought everyone wanted to be on television," she said, laughing. "What's wrong with you?"

"I guess I get nervous," Henry explained. "You know, your heart starts to beat fast and your breathing becomes heavy. Almost like hyperventilating."

"You're weird." Claire laughed again. "But I like weird."

"Is this the part where we talk about our exes?" he inquired, trying to change the subject.

"No, God no!" she exclaimed. "I need a lot of alcohol in my blood to start that conversation!"

They both laughed some more as they walked up Chum's concrete driveway. Henry did enjoy Claire's company. When she wasn't falling all over him or complaining about an excessive tip, that is. As far as Henry was concerned, "taking it slow" was code in his book for "you're gonna be difficult to get rid of if we ever have sex." He was just trying to take control of the situation by keeping his distance.

They walked up the front steps and Henry rang the doorbell. The Chumansky dogs began barking immediately as the bell played a melody Henry didn't recognize.

"That's the Mecca Warehouse jingle," Claire said, shaking her head.

"His modesty is overwhelming," Henry joked. Behind the door, Chum could be heard rounding up his dogs. After about thirty seconds, the door opened.

"I knew you'd show up!" Chum exclaimed. "Greetings to both of you. Claire Mathison, great to see you. It's been a while. I apologize for taking so long to answer the door. I threw Millie and Hazel outside through the back door."

He ushered his guests through the front door and into his recently built home. The walls had a lacquered wood finish, giving it a homey, country feel. Chum led them to the left where a petite woman was sitting on a sofa with a glass of wine. She was wearing blue jeans, a purple V-neck blouse, and sandals. Her brown hair was long and hair sprayed into a style that looked like it was from the eighties.

Some fashions never die, Henry thought.

"Honey," Chum said, "this is Henry, the guy who is renting our house."

The woman stood up and walked over to them. She extended her hand towards Henry and introduced herself.

"Maddison Chumansky. So nice to meet you, Henry. I heard you on the news today but didn't get to see your happy face."

Her voice and delivery were far more restrained than her husband's. She was an attractive woman and, like Chum, looked to be in her late thirties.

"Well, my happy face is here now," Henry responded, changing the subject and shaking her small hand. "I assume you know Claire?"

Henry enjoyed moments like this. He could observe Maddison's reaction to Claire to see if there was an issue he hadn't picked up on yet between Claire, Chum, and his wife.

"Yes. Hello, Claire," Maddison said with a smile. "It's so good to see you."

Claire returned the smile with a compliment.

No contempt or glaring issues here, Henry thought.

"The new house looks fantastic," Claire said. "It's so big!"

"Yes, it is," Maddison replied. "Would you like a tour?"

"That would be great," Claire replied enthusiastically. She looked at Henry as they began to follow Maddison.

"Hey, wait!" Chum called from behind them at the front door. "Henry, come here. You can take the tour later. I want you to meet someone."

Henry looked at Claire and Maddison and shrugged.

"We'll catch up with you in a few," Maddison said. "The house isn't _that_ big." Both ladies snickered and went on their way. Henry turned and walked to the front door where Chum was still standing, half inside and half out.

"Check this out!" he bellowed as Henry rounded the corner to the doorway. "Fire it up!" Chum yelled out the door. Immediately the roaring engine of a large motorcycle exploded through the peaceful early evening. There was a man with a Fu Manchu mustache sitting on the bike, revving it up. He was dressed in blue jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Chum looked at Henry with a toothy grin and then back at the man on the motorcycle. He made a throat slashing motion and the man powered the bike down.

"Purring like a pussy cat!" Chum shouted to the man climbing off the motorcycle.

He began moving in the direction of the door, where Henry stood with his landlord. "A Heritage Softail with thirty-three-inch Samson True Duals, eighteen-inch Ape Hangers, no baffles and lowered two inches with lots and lots of chrome," the man said. "I'm in love."

"Eddie, meet the new guy," Chum said. "This is Henry."

"Hey, man. Eddie Clark," the motorcycle man said with a handshake.

"Fast Eddie," Chum added. Eddie shrugged.

"Dare I ask what's fast about you, Eddie?" Henry asked. People love to talk about themselves, and he felt certain Eddie was no exception.

"Well, Henry, I like fast cars, fast bikes, and fast women, for starters," Fast Eddie Clark explained as the three men walked into the house.

"And he's a fast-talking salesman," Chum threw in. "Walk into my store, and if Eddie isn't already with someone, he'll find you and sell you. You'll be leaving with an entire new home entertainment system."

The men walked to the kitchen and Chum opened the refrigerator. He pulled out two bottles of Budweiser, handing one to Eddie.

"Henry?" Chum offered.

"I'm not much of a drinker," Henry said.

"Neither am I," Eddie said, looking at Chum with a grin and taking a swig.

"Here," Chum said, reaching back into the refrigerator and pulling out one more bottle, handing it to Henry. "Humor me by carrying this around and making it look like you're having a good time. You can nurse it."

The men walked back to the room where Maddison had been sitting earlier. Henry sipped his beer. It wasn't that he didn't like alcohol or the feeling that a few drinks could give him. In fact, he loved it. He just didn't want to lose his wits right now. Plus, he was still tired from a whirlwind twenty-four hours, and the alcohol would only magnify this.

As they stood and waited for the women to return, Henry listened to Chum and Fast Eddie discuss the day's events at Mecca Warehouse. Eddie bragged about up-selling an elderly couple on high-priced items and long-term replacement/repair plans. Chum gave details on new inventory that was to arrive the following week and the sales plan to sell older products fast to make room on the showroom floor.

"Being in business is a never ending battle, Henry," Chum explained. "What did you do before you made your way to Gable?"

"Yes, Henry," Claire chimed in as she returned to the room with Maddison. "What did you do?" She smiled and walked up next to him, touching his arm.

Here we go again, Henry thought.

"I was in sales," he explained. It was a lie, but at least it would fit into some of tonight's conversation.

"Oh yeah? Where at?" Chum inquired.

"It was a small company. Mostly phone sales selling credit card services," Henry explained, making things up as he went along. He wished he had created a backstory in his head at some point this past week.

"Wow, what a shitty thing to have to be selling," Eddie spouted. He took a swig of beer and, with a smirk, eyeballed everyone. Henry nodded, but Chum spoke up first.

"You've got sales experience, eh? How much is Bruce paying you?" he asked.

"I didn't say I was good at it," Henry explained. Everyone laughed.

"We'll talk later," Chum said as the doorbell rang. He answered it and let in a few more guests including some local Gable folks and a couple of the Chumanskys' friends from Adler.

Everyone continued to mingle and talk, sometimes all together and sometimes in small groups. Henry was introduced to several more guests as the "new guy" and "hero." He remained modest about yesterday evening's happenings. Claire continued to cling to him while consuming a homemade margarita blended by Chum. Every few minutes or so Henry would take a sip of his now warm Budweiser.

Not surprisingly, Fast Eddie lived up to his name. Henry observed him from a distance and saw how much Eddie liked to talk. Quite often it was impossible for anyone else to get a word in when trying to hold a conversation with him. At one point Eddie came over and asked Henry about his interview with Channel 6.

"That Balinda Simmons is a hot little number, isn't she?" Eddie asked Henry. "They made you out to be Superman on TV!"

"I didn't see it," Henry explained. "I don't have a television." As soon as he said this, he cringed on the inside.

"You don't have a TV?" Eddie exclaimed. "Chum! You hear that? New guy doesn't have a television!"

"Well, I really don't have the time to watch," Henry explained.

"He'd have to buy a satellite dish out here," Chum added.

"Bullshit!" Eddie blurted. "I've got friends in high and low places, my boy. You buy a TV from me and I'll get you free satellite service!"

Henry looked around as if the satellite police might jump out and arrest someone.

"Free satellite? How come I don't have that?" Chum shouted at his salesman as he walked across the room towards him. Eddie took a swallow from his fresh bottle of beer before responding.

"Because you've never bought a TV from me," he explained. Chum stopped dead in his tracks.

"Well," he said. "I guess I can't argue that."

Everyone who was listening to the conversation laughed. Henry tried to imagine Fast Eddie dressed for work, but it was difficult to picture him in anything other than his Harley attire. He wondered how Chum got hooked up with him.

"So, Henry," Maddison spoke up, "how did you end up here in the middle of Nowhere, Iowa?"

Henry held his expression, not wanting to give away his frustration at once again being asked about his past. More than anything he was angry with himself because he hadn't prepared. For years he had operated under the notion that people didn't care about him, they only cared about themselves. Yet here he was, playing twenty questions with everyone. Henry knew he could make up anything reasonable and just go with it. But he'd have to keep track of it all and remain consistent. All the more reason to not impair his brain with alcohol.

"I just happened to drive through and noticed the Corner Store was looking for help," he explained.

"That's...different," a guest named Abby said. "You just...drove through?"

"I guess you could say I was looking for a fresh start," Henry said.

"Looking for a fresh start?!" Chum exclaimed. "Did you ditch a crazy wife or something?"

Maddison punched her husband in the arm and came to Henry's defense. "He's still a young guy," she said. "There's nothing wrong with starting over, so to speak."

"Yeah, I start over every day," Eddie added. "Drinking, that is."

Another eruption of laughter filled the room. The party continued through the evening. Drinks flowed and Maddison served finger foods. Henry was particularly fond of her homemade bruschetta. He was glad to have the food available considering it was eight o'clock before he realized he had neglected to eat dinner.

Claire surprised Henry by taking her time with the margaritas. After the previous night he was beginning to wonder if it was normal for her to get some booze in her blood and throw herself at a guy. Women like that were the perfect companion until the next morning when the guilt kicked in along with the hangover. Henry was glad to see Claire had some self-control.

Fast Eddie was a different story. He continued to drink as if Chum had the last bottles of beer on Earth in his refrigerator. The more he drank, the louder and rowdier he got. Chum was Eddie's boss, but the personal relationship between the two men seemed to be completely different. And Eddie was larger than Chum, as was most everyone. Henry imagined the uncomfortable silence that would take place if Eddie were to get drunk enough to wrestle Chum to the ground and give him an atomic wedgie. The idea of Chum getting his underwear pulled out of his pants and over his head cracked Henry up. There was just something about the guy that made you want something awkward to happen to him.

"They've been friends since they were kids," Claire told Henry as they watched Chum and Eddie. The two men were in a deep discussion about the new big-screen televisions that had arrived at Mecca Warehouse.

"I can see that," Henry said. Claire turned and faced him.

"Do you have any friends?" she asked.

"Besides you?" Henry asked with a wink.

"You know what I mean," Claire continued. "Why are you so slippery about your past?"

Henry thought about it for a moment.

"The past has passed. The present is present," he told her.

"And the future?" Claire raised her eyebrows as if she would finally get a profound response from the new guy.

"To be determined," Henry said.

"That's pretty cryptic," a disappointed Claire responded.

"You have to admit it made sense," Henry said, trying to lighten her mood back up.

"Did you get that out of a fortune cookie?"

"I think it was on an episode of _Matlock_."

"You sure are something, Henry Fields." She shook her head and looked at the others across the room.

"Chum's wife seems pretty normal," Henry observed.

"Maddison? Yes, I guess you're right," Claire said. "A lot different than her husband. They say opposites attract, so..."

"She's not from Gable, though?"

"No. She's from another small town around here somewhere."

"I wonder how they met, then," Henry asked.

"I don't know for sure, but I do know that growing up in a small town can be suffocating," she explained. "We were always crashing other small towns or inviting people to Gable. We just wanted to spark some entertainment with new and different personalities. The entire school had about two hundred students when I graduated."

"That's pretty small," Henry agreed. "My graduating class was bigger than your entire high school."

"Wow!" Claire exclaimed.

"What?"

"You kinda-sorta told me something personal," she said. Henry smiled.

"Oops."

The evening went on with nothing eventful happening. Chum and Eddie would roar with laughter or disagreement on occasion, but it never amounted to anything serious. No one else seemed concerned about their activities, including Claire. Every once in a while, someone would ask Henry a question about his past. He would proceed by dodging an actual answer, but everyone remained cordial with him. Most didn't catch on or mind that he was changing the subject on them. Henry knew the easiest thing to do was ask them about themselves or their children. Of course, he didn't really care what they had to say in response. This was survival.

Henry could tell, however, that Claire was aware of what he was doing. If the two of them were going to continue seeing each other on any level, he was going to have to get his story straight soon.

By ten thirty the party had died down to just six people. Remaining in the house were Chum and Maddison, Henry and Claire, Eddie, and Chum's accountant Marty. Marty was a nerdy looking guy who reminded Henry of Montgomery Burns from the television show _The Simpsons_.

With so few people left, the party had gotten much quieter. Henry was beginning to think about calling it a night himself when Chum disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a shotgun. Eddie immediately saw the firearm and let out a wail full of excitement.

"Yes, baby! Let the games begin!" he shouted with a fist pump and darted out the front door.

Chum followed Eddie and slapped Henry on the arm as he passed.

"Come on, Henry!" he said. "The night is still young! Don't you just feel like shooting something, sometimes?"

Before Henry had a chance to answer, Chum disappeared through the front door. Henry turned to Maddison and Claire.

"What's this all about?" he asked the ladies, figuring one of them would have an idea.

"I think they're going shooting out front," Maddison explained. She spoke as though it wasn't unusual; just another day in the life of the Chumanskys. Even if she objected, Henry doubted she would ever say anything.

He looked at Claire and then back at Maddison. Marty, the accountant, was rubbing one of his temples.

"In the dark?" Henry asked.

At that moment, everyone in the house jumped as a gunshot exploded from the front lawn, interrupting the conversation.
**VII**

The group of six gathered just outside the front door of the Chumansky house. With the help of several floodlights, Eddie and Chum took turns shooting clay pigeons in the dark of the night. The sight of the clay discs floating through the late evening sky reminded Henry of a nighttime baseball game.

While Maddison spoke with Marty on the front steps, Henry and Claire sat in lounge chairs near the garage behind the shooting.

"The electronics business seems to have treated Chum well," Henry observed. "Nice, custom built house with brand new furniture, lots of land..."

"That's for sure," Claire said. "To me he lives the life of a billionaire."

"What keeps you here?" Henry inquired.

"I guess it's familiarity. Gable is all I've ever known. I've worked at Stubby's for sixteen years."

"Sixteen years?"

"Since I was nine," she said, pausing for a beat before continuing. "Stubby was my uncle," she explained. "He was my dad's big brother."

"I see," Henry said. He thought it was interesting she hadn't mentioned this before.

"I like it here, I guess. I still live at home for crying out loud," she continued.

"You get along with your parents?" Henry asked.

"My dad died three years ago," Claire said. "Heart attack."

"I'm sorry," Henry replied.

A shout interrupted their conversation.

"Hey, Henry! Get your ass over here and take a few shots!" Chum hollered.

Henry stood up and stretched his legs. "I'm not much of a sharpshooter."

"Good. Then you'll make us look better," Eddie said. He handed the gun to Henry who looked at it as if it were from another galaxy.

"I wasn't kidding. I'm not a gun-guy," he reiterated.

Chum stepped between his tenant and his sales guy and gave Henry a quick thirty-second tutorial. Eddie stood off to the side and loaded the manual clay pigeon thrower.

"Call 'pull' when you're ready," Chum told him. Henry took a couple of deep breaths and held the gun up, aiming into the dark sky.

"Pull!" Henry said with authority. Eddie flung the disc of clay as far as he could into the air above the field. For a moment Henry lost sight of it. When he found it again he did his best to line the barrel up and pulled the trigger. Simultaneously, he felt the kick of the gun drive into his shoulder and heard the crack of gunfire. The clay pigeon made a soft "thud" as it landed in the grassy field, unharmed.

"I told you I wasn't any good," Henry said, glancing first at Chum and then turning around and shrugging at Claire. She covered her mouth as if to hide her laughter.

"Those things cost me almost a quarter apiece, Henry," Chum joked. "You better not miss too many more!"

"I'd go out there and bring it back but I don't trust Eddie not to cap me," Henry retorted.

"Don't worry, he'd miss you," Chum joked again.

Fast Eddie snorted.

"You're so sure of that, you wanna run out there yourself?" he asked his friend and boss while putting out a cigarette on the driveway cement with his boot.

"Tell you what," Chum said, taking the gun from Henry, "I'd hate for you to accidentally kill me. I've got a better idea. A safer one."

Maddison's attention moved to her husband.

"I'm listening," said Eddie, taking a swig from his beer bottle.

"I'll step out twenty-five yards or so, holding a pigeon in the thrower," Chum explained. "I'll extend my arm with the thrower, exposing the pigeon as your target."

"So, you're gonna hold my target," Eddie confirmed.

"It's a nineteen inch margin for error, give or take," Chum said.

"You're on, hotshot," Eddie said, handing Chum the thrower and grabbing the shotgun.

"Tom, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Maddison shouted as she walked down the front steps and headed for her husband. Chum ignored her.

"One thing, though," Chum added, "if I let you do it, you have to let me do it."

"As long as I get to go first," Eddie agreed. "That way when you shoot me I'll at least have the satisfaction of knowing I beat you."

"Deal!" Chum said. He bent over and grabbed a clay pigeon and put it in the thrower. By now Maddison had made her way over to him. Henry moved back to his chair next to Claire.

"Have you two jackasses lost your minds!?" she protested.

Chum threw up his arms. "What?" he said. "It's not like we're having Henry shoot—no offense, Henry. Ed and I are both good shots."

"Good shots who've been drinking for four hours," Maddison added sharply.

"Nineteen inches, Maddie!" Chum bellowed.

"Yeah, at worst I'm only a couple of millimeters drunk right now," Eddie chimed in. Chum laughed. Even Henry thought that was pretty funny.

"You guys are making jokes now but what's gonna happen when one of you ends up hurt or...worse?" Maddison pleaded.

"We already have an experienced hero here." Chum pointed at Henry.

Good Lord, Henry thought. When's this "hero" garbage going to end? May as well play along.

"I'm not doing mouth-to-mouth, just so you know," Henry said. Claire smacked him on the arm.

"You're egging them on?" she asked him.

"Those two don't need any help. I'm just the peanut gallery," Henry explained.

By now, Maddison had given up talking sense into either one of them. She walked behind the two men to where Henry and Claire sat. Marty had also wandered over. The four of them stood and watched Eddie and Chum prepare for their circus act.

Chum walked into the front yard and turned around at about twenty yards.

"Go back a little more," Eddie told him. "I need some more distance between me and the target."

Chum took five more steps back, stopped, and spoke. "I'm not going back anymore. Your trajectory might get all jacked up."

"Trajectory shmajectory," Eddie said. "Stick that puppy out there. Let's do this!"

Chum held his right arm out to the side, the thrower in his hand. The clay pigeon sat in the holder, awaiting its fate.

"I can't watch," Maddison said, putting her hands over her face but peeking between her fingers.

Henry figured the chances of Chum being hit, at least with Eddie shooting, were slim. The drama was much ado about nothing. Nineteen inches left plenty of room to make a mistake. Eddie was, from what Henry had witnessed in the last hour, a good shot. Still, the idea of something going wrong was intensifying the atmosphere. Claire had grabbed on to Henry's forearm with a grip strong enough to stop the blood flow to his hand and fingers. Maddison continued to cover her eyes and peer between her fingers. Marty was cringing with his head turned sideways, watching with one squinty eye. Henry, on the other hand, was treating this demonstration like a NASCAR race. Chances of a crash were slim, but the possibility of one happening is the only reason anyone watches.

"Hold it steady," Fast Eddie ordered his boss. He raised the gun and began to aim. Chum continued to hold his arm out and did not seem to move an inch. He didn't even look nervous. Henry wasn't sure if that was because he was half in the bag or just a little bit crazy.

As fast as he raised it and aimed, Eddie fired the shotgun. The clay pigeon shattered instantly. Chum staggered a little from the momentum of the bullet's impact.

"Score," Eddie declared coolly, pulling the gun back down.

"My turn," Chum said as he strolled back to the group.

"You sound like a child," Maddison told him.

"I'm just a kid at heart, baby," Chum replied. He walked up to her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and walked back over to Eddie.

Henry turned to Claire. "Is this normal small town weekend behavior?" he asked her. Before Claire could respond, Maddison did. "It is in our house," she explained. "I've been trying to get him to settle down for years."

"It could be a lot worse," Claire said. "He could be out doing God knows what."

Maddison sighed. The two men walked through the yard to where Chum had held the thrower to see if they could figure out how perfect Eddie's aim had been.

"I suppose you're right," she agreed.

"I had a wife that was always out doing God knows what," Marty added, making eye contact with everyone. "It really could be worse, Maddie."

"If it makes you feel any better, I think this is all for show," Henry commented. "It would be different if they had an apple on their head or something, but holding that thing out like that is pretty safe. I mean, as long as I'm not the one doing the shooting."

The four of them let out quiet chuckles as the two shooters walked back.

"Take two," Chum announced.

"It's not possible to hit it better than I did," Eddie said. "You can only hope to match me." He grabbed a clay pigeon and put it in the thrower. "Don't shoot me."

"Get out there," Chum told him. "I wanna get this done so I can run inside and get me another beer."

Eddie walked out to the approximate area where Chum had been only a few minutes earlier. He held his right arm out and waited with his left hand on his hip. He showed no concern for his safety. Chum raised the shotgun and began to aim.

Off in the distance, a vehicle could be heard rumbling up the gravel driveway. Only the headlights were visible as they moved past Henry's house and beamed towards the small gathering of people. Chum lowered the gun. As it approached, it became clear the vehicle was a pickup truck. They could see shadowy figures in both the cab and the bed.

"Ho...ly...shit," Chum managed to utter as he stared and watched the pickup jump off the driveway's slab of concrete and come to a stop on his lawn. Three Hispanic men leaped to the yard from the back of the truck. Two more exited the cab. Of the five, two of the men who had jumped from the truck's bed were a lot bigger than the others.

"What the hell...?" Henry said under his breath. He looked at Claire. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head, telling him she had no idea what was going on, either.

"Buenas noches, muchachos y muchachas," the passenger from the pickup cab said as he approached Chum. He had a black mustache and appeared to be the leader of the group. The driver stood next to him as the other three men followed behind. "I hope you don't mind us joining your party, Tomás," the man continued in English.

"Tom, who are these men?" Maddison asked her husband as she walked up and stood next to him in front of the strangers. Henry continued to watch from a distance with Claire and Marty. He could sense these men had not been invited to the get-together.

The man with the mustache reached out to grab the shotgun from Chum's hands. Chum immediately tried to jerk the gun back, but the man held his grip. As this was going on, the other man pulled a handgun from the waistband of his jeans and pointed it between Maddison's eyes. The cold steel pressed against her skin.

"Tom..." Maddison sobbed as she immediately began to shake. Claire let out a gasp and grabbed Henry's arm.

"Ok, ok!" Chum blurted, responding to the gun in his wife's face. "Here." He handed the shotgun to the man with the mustache. "Let her go, Franco."

Franco put his hand in the air.

"Eso es suficiente, Rafael," he said. Rafael obeyed Franco and released Maddison from gunpoint. She ran back to where she had been standing before, between Henry and Marty.

Fast Eddie began to walk in from his spot where he had been holding the target, but Franco stopped him. "Hold on, Eduardo," he said. "It looks like you were having fun. Stay there. I'd like to have fun, too."

Eddie stopped cold in his tracks, not knowing for sure what to do. When he began moving forward again, Rafael held up his gun and aimed it at Eddie.

"All right!" Eddie shouted and took five steps back, still holding the clay pigeon thrower.

"What the hell is going on here?" Henry asked in a whisper, looking first at Maddison and then at Claire. The fear on both of their faces gave no answers and confirmed this was no joke.

"I saw you two playing a game when we drove up. Hold that target out," Franco told Eddie, who hesitated to obey. Franco looked at Chum. "You like playing games, don't you, Tomás?"

Chum remained silent as Franco raised the shotgun toward Eddie. Henry sat in his chair not having a clue what was going on, but recognizing that getting up was not a good idea. There were too many guns out there.

One of the other three men moved to Franco and pushed the shotgun down. Placing his hand on Franco's shoulder, he spoke to him under his breath in Spanish. Henry couldn't make out a word the man was saying but assumed by his facial expressions he was attempting to calm Franco down.

"Yo sé lo que estoy haciendo, Carlos," Franco told the man as he pushed him aside. "¡Fuera de mi camino!"

Carlos retreated to his previous position with the other men. As he did, Henry could see a concerned look on his face. It was obvious Franco would now continue to terrorize the group.

"Hold it out there, Eduardo," Franco instructed, once again aiming the gun at Eddie. "Where is my money?" he asked Chum without looking at him.

"I don't have it, but...I'll get it...soon," Chum said.

"Then where is my coke?" Franco asked.

"I told you two weeks ago I don't have it," Chum answered. "I ran into a situation—"

Gunfire interrupted Chum's voice as Franco pulled the trigger. In a split second, Fast Eddie Clark grabbed his right leg and fell to the grass, wailing in agonizing pain.

Claire, Maddison, and Marty gasped in unison. Henry continued to process what was going on while remaining on guard. He began running through scenarios in his head about what might happen next and what he could do to help ensure everyone's safety. It surprised him that Eddie was still alive. Henry thought for sure Franco would aim higher.

"I missed," Franco said and then looked at Chum. "Or did I?"

"Come on, man," Chum pleaded. "Have I ever done you wrong? I'm going to make this right. I just need more time."

"I know you're going to make it right," Franco agreed. "One way or another."

Claire continued to stare at the scene, as if she were watching a scary movie.

"I'd heard the rumors," she whispered, "but I never thought they were anything more than...rumors."

"That Chum was dealing?" Henry asked, turning to look at her. Claire nodded. They both looked over at Maddison, who was now in tears as Marty tried to comfort her.

"Do you think she knew?" Claire asked Henry.

"I doubt it. She sure seemed clueless," he answered.

"What's going to happen?"

"I don't know, but..." Henry's voice trailed off. He didn't have the answers and he didn't want to say something corny. He was doing his best to keep his cool and stay in control and up to this point he had done just that. All the more reason it was a good idea to drink half a beer the entire evening. Despite being tired from the night before, Henry still had his senses. He was on high alert. Somebody needed to be.

"Llevarlos dentro de la casa," Franco ordered his men. "And get Eduardo a band-aid."

Carlos and the two larger men came over to where Henry, the ladies, and Marty were. They pulled out guns of their own. Maddison began to scream.

"I think they're just taking us into the house," Henry told her. He hadn't taken a lot of Spanish in school, but he knew enough to recognize the word "casa." Maddison immediately stopped screaming. Everyone stood up and walked into the house with the armed men following behind.

Once inside, the three men directed them to the sitting area where the party had commenced earlier. Following behind was Rafael as he helped Eddie limp his way into the house. Franco strolled in a few seconds later as Eddie fell onto the couch.

"He needs a doctor!" Maddison exclaimed as Franco made his way into the room.

"He does," Franco agreed. "But that's not my concern right now." He pivoted in a circle, scoping out the Chumansky home. "Rafael! Carlos! ¡Ven conmigo! It's time to search the house." He began to walk out of the room with his two main men but turned around and looked at Chum. "Where's my shit?" Franco asked him.

Chum looked at him in desperation. "I honestly do not have it. Just give me a chance to figure things out."

"I already have," Franco said. He turned and walked out of the room.

Eddie continued to groan in pain every thirty seconds or so. Chum and Maddison sat next to him and attempted to comfort him.

Henry grabbed Chum by the arm. "You're a drug dealer? Seriously?" Henry said, jerking his arm in rhythm.

"Man..." Chum said. He looked at his wife and then back at Henry. "Where do you think I got the dough for the stores?"

"¡Silencio!"

One of the big men watching them was not pleased with their chatter. He moved closer to enforce his command to be quiet.

At this point, Henry wasn't sure what to do next. He didn't know if Chum was telling Franco the truth or if they'd find anything as they searched the house. The fact that they were all at gunpoint didn't give them much of a chance to do anything. All they could do now was wait.

The clock ticked. An occasional rumble could be heard throughout the house. Henry assumed they were turning furniture over and throwing things around as they looked for their drugs and money. He held Claire close to him, wondering if they would ever get the opportunity to take their relationship to another level.

After twenty minutes, the three men returned, empty-handed and unhappy.

"Tomás, you've left me no choice," Franco said. "There is nothing here."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you!" Chum replied. "I'll get it taken—"

"Enough!" Franco shouted. He turned to Rafael. "Matarlos a todos."

Carlos hurried over to Franco again. This time his voice was louder and more desperate. "¡Franco, no necesitamos matarlos! ¡Debemos darles la oportunidad de conseguir el dinero!" he pleaded.

Franco held his hand in front of Rafael, who obeyed by pulling his gun out and placing it in his boss's hand. Without another word, Franco held the gun in front of Carlos and shot him in the head. Maddison and Claire both let out screams of shock as the man crumpled to the wooden floor, lifeless.

"Do it," he said to Rafael, handing the gun back to him. He turned and walked out the front door.

This can't be good, Henry thought.
**VIII**

Rafael and the remaining two men walked over to Chum and his guests on the couch. Eddie was still groaning in pain, but conscious. Maddison was in a panic, sitting between Marty and her husband.

"What are they doing? Tom! What are they going to do?"

Chum looked at his wife, then at Rafael, who was scratching his temple with the barrel of his gun. Henry had a pretty good idea what was about to happen if Chum didn't give them what they wanted. Scenarios like this were not what Henry had in mind when he pulled into town last weekend.

So, this is how it's going to end for me, Henry thought.

Suddenly, as if a traffic light had turned green, Rafael pulled the gun down, aimed it at Marty's forehead, and pulled the trigger. It happened so fast, Marty didn't even have a chance to beg for his life. His head snapped back and his body followed, falling limp on the couch. His eyes stared at the ceiling.

"Oh my God!" Maddison screamed in tears. Claire buried her head in Henry's shoulder as she also began to weep.

"Tom! Do something! Give them what they want!" Maddison pleaded with her husband.

"Even if I had the money or the drugs to give them, it wouldn't matter now," Chum said. "It's no use. We're all dead."

Henry's mind was racing. There had to be a way out of this. He remembered hearing the story of United Flight 93 on 9/11 and how the passengers and crew had fought back. They rushed the terrorists, who were armed with box cutters, in an attempt to regain control of the plane. But the odds were not good for something like that happening tonight. Guns were a lot more accurate from a distance than box cutters. Plus, Franco was still outside somewhere.

Rafael wasted no time as he moved a foot to his left and stood in front of Maddison. This time he was patient. He looked her in the eyes, at the tears streaming down her mascara- streaked face. She sobbed and grabbed her husband's arm. This seemed to freeze Chum with fear. So much so that he made no effort to protect his wife.

"Please! Please..." Maddison's voice trailed off as she spoke. "Please don't...don't kill me..."

Rafael did not react.

"I'm pregnant," Maddison said as a slight smile made a brief appearance on her lips. At first, Henry wasn't sure if she was telling this to Chum or to Rafael. But the look on his landlord's face and his verbal response said it all.

"You're...you're pregnant?" Chum repeated back to her. She nodded. Rafael began to raise the gun.

"Hang on! Wait! Stop!" Chum yelled as he tried to put his hand in front of the gun. The killer pulled it down to his side. He was curious as to what Chum would say next. So was everybody else.

Chum let out a sigh strong enough to make his bangs float off his forehead. He looked up from the couch and spoke to Rafael. "I'll take you to the stuff. Just leave everyone else alone. Please?"

Henry couldn't help but let the tiniest of smirks form on his face when he heard Chum add "the magic word" at the end of his offer to Rafael. This guy just put a hole in your accountant's head. Using a pleasantry wasn't going to faze him.

Rafael smirked, too. He put the gun down by his side, turned, and walked out the front door. The other two men stood in front of them, watching and waiting for further instructions from their boss. Claire huddled close to Henry. Maddison did the same to Chum, but while doing so glanced at Marty's lifeless body on the couch. She let out a gasp and buried her face in her husband's shoulder. None of them spoke at this point, not knowing what the consequences might be. The only noise was an occasional groan from Eddie. He was turning pale, looking sick. Ninety seconds passed before Rafael re-entered the house with Franco.

"Tomás, I understand you've decided to give me what I came for," Franco said.

"Yeah," Chum answered without looking up.

"Finalmente," Franco said. "Where is it?"

Chum continued to stare into space through all four of the armed men in front of him. "We have to go to my farmhouse up the drive."

"We? I don't think so, amigo," Franco said as he moved to the front door. "I will go by myself. Where in the house?"

Chum let out a chuckle and a slight shrug. "Suit yourself," he said. "Basement. Under the clothes dryer."

Franco moved back into the room and stood in front of Chum.

"What is so funny?" Franco inquired.

"Nothing. I mean, you might be able to disarm it yourself for all I know," Chum explained vaguely.

"Disarm what?" Franco asked, angry now. He pulled his gun out and aimed it at Maddison. "Start talking or I'm going to pick up where Rafael left off."

"Ok, ok. It's booby trapped—rigged with an explosive," Chum said. "You're going to need my help."

Franco put the gun down and looked around the room. First at the people on the couch, then back at his men. He looked at Chum.

"Get up," Franco said. He looked at Henry and pointed at him with the gun. "You too," he said.

"Me?" Henry questioned as he stood up. He looked down at Claire, who now had a strained look on her face.

"You two are coming with Rafael and me," Franco explained. He turned to the other two men and spoke in Spanish while pointing in the direction of Maddison, Claire, and Eddie. "No los deje fuera de su vista. Si intentan algo, matar a todos ellos."

"No funny stuff," Franco said to them. "I told these guys to shoot you if you try anything."

Rafael and Franco moved to the door.

"Let's go," Franco commanded Chum and Henry. Claire touched Henry's fingers one last time before he walked completely from her grasp. He turned and looked at her calmly, mouthing the words, "It's okay." She gave Henry a faint smile as he turned and walked out the door.

#

Franco insisted on using the truck to get to the farmhouse. Rafael drove with Chum riding shotgun, while Franco sat in the bed and kept his eye and gun on Henry. The ride was bumpy and short. Henry wondered why, if Chum had the money or the drugs the entire time, he hadn't saved Eddie's leg and Marty's life by giving it up earlier. This entire situation was difficult to fathom. Henry kept thinking how he should've just gone to bed tonight. Or gone home from the party earlier. More than likely he still would have ended up finding himself in the middle of this mess right about now. Henry imagined what it would be like to have these guys wake him up in the middle of the night.

It's better this way, he thought. At least I know what's going on.

The pickup came to a stop next to the side door of Henry's rental house. The four men got out of the truck. Chum walked up to the door and almost ran into it, discovering the hard way that it was locked. He turned to Henry.

"You locked it?"

"Yeah. Is that unusual?" Henry asked, reaching into his pocket for the key.

"It is in Iowa," Chum answered. He took the key, unlocked the door, and handed the key back to his tenant. Henry assumed he was the only one in the group who found it amusing that Chum was giving him grief for locking a door while escorted at gunpoint by homicidal drug dealers.

"You live here?" Franco asked Henry as the men walked through the door and into the kitchen.

"For a week," Henry replied as Wilson greeted him in the doorway by rubbing against his leg. Rafael led them down the stairs to the basement. When the four men had gathered, they all turned and faced the clothes washer and dryer.

"Where is it?" Franco asked.

"Gonna need some help moving the dryer," Chum explained.

"He can do it," Franco said, motioning to Henry. Chum walked over to the clothes dryer and Henry followed. They lifted and moved the appliance, revealing a small trapdoor about three feet square. "What about the explosives?" Franco asked.

"I don't know what happened. They're gone," Chum said. He knelt down in front of the door and examined it.

"What do you mean?" Franco asked, moving closer to the hidden door.

"I mean, somebody disarmed it and removed the C4. It's gone!" Chum exclaimed as he fumbled his way through the combination of the attached padlock. He pulled the lock open and grabbed the latch on the door, opening it to the left.

"What the fuck?" Chum blurted.

"It's empty!" Franco shouted. "What kind of bullshit are you trying to pull here?" He grabbed Chum by the back of his collar and yanked him to his feet.

"I'm not pulling anything!" Chum insisted. "There were five kilos in there and two hundred and fifty grand—it's all gone!"

Franco stared at him as he tried to decipher the truth by looking deep into Chum's eyes.

"Maybe Eddie took it," Franco suggested.

"He didn't know where it was at, and even if he did he wouldn't do that," Chum told him. "The stuff was just here last weekend when I..."

Chum turned and eyeballed Henry.

"What?" Henry asked. Chum's head turned sideways, still staring. Then it dawned on Henry what he was thinking.

"You think it was me? I've been working the entire week until now. Work and sleep, that's all I've done. I haven't even been in this basement until now!"

The last part wasn't true, but Henry didn't think explaining himself would help his case. It was safer to lie.

"It was here last Sunday before I started mowing the lawn. You showed up and rented the place and that was the last time I was in here until now. Who else would it be?" Chum accused.

"It seems you've got plenty of enemies. Why don't you tell us who else it would be," Henry said. He couldn't believe this was happening.

"If you two don't figure this out in thirty seconds, I'm going to shoot both of you right here. Someone knows something. Come on, damnit!" Franco was growing impatient.

"Shoot both of us?" Chum cried out. "He's the one who stole the shit!"

"No. I didn't." Henry said in a much calmer tone than Chum had just used to accuse him.

"Figure it out," Franco commanded them.

Henry looked at Chum, then at Franco and Rafael.

"This is bullshit. I'm being set up," Henry told them. He needed to figure something out, fast. Chum didn't seem interested in anything but pointing the finger and saving himself.

What an asshole, Henry thought.

"You just need to tell the truth," Chum pleaded with a worried look on his face. "They're going to shoot both of us!"

Henry wanted to punch him. Instead, he came up with the only solution he could think of.

"All right. I'll take you to it," Henry told Franco. "We need to go to the Corner Store."

Chum looked relieved and surprised at the same time.

"This better not be another game," Franco threatened.

"It's not," Henry assured him. "Let's go."

The men climbed back inside the pickup truck the same way they had arrived. Henry wondered how Claire was doing back at the house and if he'd ever see her again. All he could do right now was remain calm and keep his racing heart under control. He knew there was no way out of this train wreck alive if he didn't continue to think straight.

Less than ten minutes later they arrived at the closed convenience store. Rafael parked the truck parallel to the front door. It was now one thirty in the morning. The entire area was quiet except for the occasional sound of highway noise.

Henry unlocked the front door to the store and began to enter before Franco stopped him.

"Rafael will go first," Franco told him. Henry stepped aside to let Rafael through and then entered himself.

"No alarm?" Franco asked.

"Do you hear anything?" Henry avoided answering the question.

"Unusual for a store," Franco observed. He looked around for signs of a trap.

"No money kept here. Just food and beer," Henry explained. He knew bringing them to the Corner Store was his only hope of making it out of this situation. But Henry would need some help from Chum to turn the tables.

"So where's my stuff?" Franco asked. "I'm getting tired of asking the question."

"I need to get the key for the walk-in cooler," Henry said as he began to walk behind the counter. Franco followed with his gun drawn in his left hand even though there was barely enough room for both men in such a tight area. Rafael and Chum moved to the back corner of the building, near the cooler. Henry grabbed the key ring off the nail behind the counter next to the telephone and radio. As he did this he knew the next five seconds would be his only hope.

"Ok," Henry said, and what he was hoping would happen, did. One brief moment with his guard down was all Henry needed from the armed man. Franco made a half-turn to exit the tight space. This exposed his back to Henry when he should've been keeping an eye on him by walking backwards. Henry considered trying to knock Franco out with a punch to the back of the head, but feared the effort would fail. Instead, he made one swift move to get the gun out of Franco's left hand as he was completing his turn. The firearm was, after all, a much greater threat than Franco. Although he wasn't the fist-fighting type, Henry liked his chances against his captor, one-on-one. He put his hands together and swung both arms with all the strength he had. He slammed Franco's left arm against the gunman's body, bashing the weapon from his grasp. Reacting a split second too late, Franco turned in time to take another double-armed swing from Henry to the face and side of the head. The force sent Franco's head into the counter as his face kissed the metal cash register and flattened him to the floor with a thump. He wasn't completely unconscious, but dazed enough to give Henry time to grab Franco's gun from the floor and Bruce's from under the counter.

The commotion sent Rafael into a panic, causing him to hesitate. This enabled Chum to lower his shoulder and tackle Rafael against the walk-in cooler door. But the struggle was going to be a tough one to win, even for a scrappy guy like Chum. Rafael was armed, which meant Chum would have to hold the gun off while defending himself from Rafael's other fisted hand.

Not expecting him to last long in the fight, Henry darted to the other side of the store to help Chum while Franco remained on the floor, nursing a headache. As he did this a shot rang out through the store, but the brawl continued. Henry assumed it was errant gunfire caused by the combat. He reached the tussle with both guns drawn on Rafael, who was still on the bottom.

"That's it! It's over! Drop the gun!" Henry shouted. Rafael's eyes bugged out of his head when he realized what was happening. The hand holding the gun immediately went limp. Chum pulled the gun away and stood up, holding it on his attacker.

"Don't pull that trigger," Henry told him.

"Why? He killed Marty and damn near killed my wife!" Chum protested, still catching his breath.

"Because I work here and I don't want to have to clean up the mess." It was a terrible answer, but Henry didn't have time for philosophical justifications. "There's some twine in the storage closet. Tie him up and get him in the cooler. I'll do the same with Franco. The cops are on their way."

Chum didn't question anything. Not even whether the drugs or money were actually in the cooler. Henry kept the gun tight on Rafael while he reached down and found the truck keys inside his jacket. He placed them in his front jeans pocket. Chum helped tie both men up and drag them inside the ten by ten refrigerator. Less than five minutes had passed since the four men first walked into the store. Henry was expecting the police to arrive at any moment.

"So, now we just wait for the cops?" Chum asked.

"Yeah," Henry said. "Grab me one of those Gatorades over there, will you?"

Chum turned and walked to a shelf near the corner of the cooler. He tucked the gun in the back of his jeans.

"What flavor? Grape, Blue, or—"

Chum was unable to finish his sentence. Henry had approached him in silence from behind and began administering a blood choke. Within seconds, Chum passed out and was lying on the cold floor near the other two criminals. The choke hold was the only tactic Henry remembered from a two-week self-defense course he took during an interim period in college. The unconsciousness would only last a few seconds, so Henry knew he needed to act fast. He took the gun from Chum's waistband, left the cooler, closed the door, and locked it, leaving the key in the lock.

As he ran out the front door of the store, Henry could hear Chum pounding on the cooler door from the inside. A piercing blare of sirens was coming from the highway. Henry got in the truck, turned the key, and stormed off heading west, back to the Chumansky property. He wasn't sure what was going through Chum's mind after they had tied up Franco and Rafael, but Henry had no interest in spending another minute trusting him. Not after he had tried to get Henry killed. At this point, he didn't care about anything other than getting back to the house and helping Claire to safety.

The night was black on the winding country roads of Gable. Henry kept the high beams on to compensate for the darkness. Taking the curves at top speed, he used both lanes and the shoulder to help keep the truck on the road and out of the ditch. Henry prayed there was nobody else out for a late night drive.

By the time he approached the driveway he had formulated most of his next plan. He didn't have any time to waste and, just like the ambush he orchestrated at the Corner Store, there was only one shot at getting it right. This time he would have no help. Not from another man, anyway, since Fast Eddie was currently "Slow Eddie" at best, and more than likely passed out from the pain.

As he turned off the highway onto the gravel drive, Henry saw Chum's dogs, Millie and Hazel, bouncing in his direction. They hadn't been seen or heard from since Chum let them out the back door when Henry and Claire arrived at the house. Henry assumed they had found something more interesting to do for the past several hours.

Better late than never, you two, he thought.
**IX**

When he reached his house, Henry parked the truck next to the side door, jumped out, and raced inside. First, he grabbed a broom and a mop from the kitchen pantry. Then he dug out two bricks from the landscaping around the concrete steps outside. Millie and Hazel weren't much help, as the happy-go-lucky dogs pounced on him the same way they had the day he met Chum. He placed all the items in the cab of the truck and drove towards Chum's large house, where Claire and the others were still held captive. Instead of using the gravel driveway Henry kept the vehicle on the grassy field, hoping to keep his arrival silent. When he was approximately forty yards from the house, he shifted the truck into park but kept it running. He hoped the gurgling of the engine was not audible from inside the large house. Even if it was, Henry figured the two goons wouldn't budge after witnessing their coworker getting gunned down for questioning Franco.

He took the broom and mop and used their long, straight handles to stabilize the steering wheel in a straight-ahead position. Henry had seen this done on TV shows, but he wasn't sure how realistic it was to expect it to work in real life. The truck was facing the right front side of the house away from Claire and the rest, assuming they were still in the same place he'd left them.

Henry had gone over several plans in his mind during the speedy drive back to the farm. He'd considered parking the truck a hundred yards out and laying a brick on the horn. But Henry knew this wasn't foolproof. If it failed, the two creeps guarding the others would know something was wrong. God knows what they might do to wipe their trail clean. He thought about using the simple approach of walking in the front door with two guns drawn to see what they would do. Once again, though, Henry didn't feel good about the possibilities. Especially if bullets started flying. There were too many innocent, unarmed people in the house. He knew he needed to take these thugs by surprise, and the best way to do it was with some good old-fashioned misdirection.

Henry didn't like the idea of jumping out of a moving truck, so a brick and some large sticks would have to do the trick. But there was still one problem. He needed to figure out a way to shift the automatic transmission from neutral to drive while the accelerator remained floored. This would not be an easy task. While conducting a couple of tests, Henry discovered the gearshift was close enough to the steering wheel that he could make the move by sticking his arm in and pulling it out before the truck took off on its own.

After reassuring himself everything was ready, Henry proceeded with his ruse. He put the pickup in neutral and laid a brick on the accelerator. The vehicle revved up but went nowhere. The RPM needle bounced inside the gauge like a flopping fish out of water. With one swift move, Henry flipped the gear into drive and pulled his arm out. The truck immediately took off on a beeline for the front of Chum's house. Henry bolted behind it as fast as his legs would carry him.

#

The scene inside the Chumansky house remained the same as it had been more than an hour ago. Claire and Maddison sat next to each other on the sofa. Next to Maddison was Eddie, half lying down, half sitting up. His entire left pant leg was drenched in blood, and he was barely conscious. None of them had spoken a word since the other men had left.

The two Hispanic men in charge of watching them were hovering near the sofa, taking turns pacing in and out of the room. They spoke in Spanish to each other often, and it was clear to the prisoners that their patience was wearing thin. The longer Franco and Rafael were gone, the more intense their conversations became. At one point they raised their voices at each other, possibly in disagreement about how to proceed if their superiors did not return soon.

The last thing anyone in the house expected at that moment was a truck driving through the front door. Drywall, wood, and bricks went flying everywhere as a wall of the house caved in from the force of the pickup truck ramming through the doorway before settling in the foyer. The instantaneous demolition caught everyone off guard. They were too stunned to react. The sound was nowhere near as disturbing as the jaw-dropping experience of watching the destruction take place. Even Maddison could only look on in shock.

"¿Qué demonios pasó?" one of the men screamed.

"¡Es la camióneta de Rafael!" the other man responded.

The men turned their backs on the couch and began investigating the truck, guns drawn. Millie and Hazel began barking outside. Debris covered the windshield and driver's side window. One of the men began brushing it off to have a closer look inside.

From the back hallway, visible only to his friends on the couch, Henry appeared at the same moment the two goons turned to examine the truck. Maddison and Claire both noticed him but did not say a word. Instead, they indicated that it was safe for him to enter the room. Before doing so, Henry removed his shoes. He walked past the three on the couch and motioned for them to be quiet and stay put. He held a gun in each hand. The third one was tucked in the back of his jeans, out of sight.

Henry felt like John McClane in the movie _Die Hard_ even though he knew he was far from it. People will do crazy things to survive. He already knew this from recent personal experience. He moved silently as the two men continued to ramble at each other in Spanish. Henry kept his approach angled in the shadows so that when either man changed his position or turned his head, he would remain out of their line of sight.

By the time the two men were finally able to look inside the truck cab and discover there was no one inside, Henry was right behind them. He placed a gun barrel against the back of each of their heads.

"Don't move," Henry commanded. Neither of them did. But one of them spoke.

"Shit," he said.

"Good, you know English. Drop your guns to the floor. Now." Henry was firm and hostile on the outside. On the inside he was nervous as hell that one of the guys would make a move. Killing someone was not something Henry wanted to add to his résumé tonight.

Both men let their guns fall to the floor. Henry kept his guns pressed against the two men's heads.

"Claire! Maddison! Come grab these guns!" he instructed without turning around. Both women darted from the couch and picked up the firearms.

"What happened?" Claire asked him.

"Where's Tom?" Maddison asked in a panic.

Henry kept his guns in position and didn't turn his head to look at either one of them.

"He's fine. I'll tell you everything. But first you need to get something for us to tie these two assholes up with."

Maddison found some four-inch duct tape and called for an ambulance at the same time. Henry marched the men against a wall and forced them to sit on the floor. Then the ladies helped him bind the men at the wrists and ankles. When they were finished, Henry put his shoes back on and gave a limited overview of the events that had taken place at the farmhouse and store.

"We ended up luring them to the Corner Store, where we were able to ambush them," he explained, skipping over all the other details. He didn't think getting into Chum's questionable behavior or the fact that Henry had locked him in the cooler with the other two would be a good idea right now. He also didn't have the time for it.

"So then where is my husband? I missed that part," Maddison asked sarcastically.

"Sorry," Henry responded. "He's at the Corner Store waiting for the cops."

As far as Henry was concerned, this was the absolute truth, if not the whole truth. He was thankful she didn't ask more questions.

"I need a drink," Maddison declared, and began heading for the kitchen.

"Before you do that," Henry said, "I need to run back to my house."

"Why? What for?" Claire asked. She stepped forward and placed her hand on Henry's chest.

"It's a long story," he said, avoiding an actual answer. "I'm going to leave you with these." Henry handed each woman a gun. He leaned in to them and whispered. "If either of them tries anything, just shoot him in the leg," he said.

"I don't know that I can shoot someone," Claire said with a worried look.

"If you had to, I bet you could," Henry assured her, still whispering. "But I don't think you'll need to worry about it." He smiled and grabbed her empty hand. "The police and ambulance should be here soon. You're going to be fine," Henry told her. He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips. Releasing her hand, he turned toward the front door before realizing his error.

"I guess that one's out of service," Henry joked as he moved to the back door. Claire covered her mouth to hide her smile. Maddison could only stare at the pickup parked in her front hallway.

#

Henry sprinted as fast as he could back to the little white farmhouse he had lived in for a mere week. Entering through the side door, he ran through the kitchen and headed straight for the bedroom. He tossed his duffel bags on the bed and began gathering his clothes and other belongings. Wilson was in dire need of attention and made it known to his owner. He jumped on the bed and purred incessantly, rubbing up against Henry every time he came near him. On occasion, Henry would stop packing and pet his cat for a moment, or stroke his ears.

It only took Henry a few minutes to finish. Next, he took the cover off the old-fashioned vent in the bedroom and reached inside, pulling out his small backpack. Henry unzipped it and glanced at the cash inside. It was filled to the top. He zipped it closed again and slung it over his right shoulder.

It was now after two in the morning and Henry expected the police to be driving up to the farm property at any moment. After making sure Wilson had plenty of food and water, he turned off all the lights in the house. He left the house key on the kitchen counter along with the remaining guns. He then made sure all the doors were locked from the inside before heading out the front door. He popped open the trunk of his Honda and tossed his two duffel bags in. The backpack accompanied Henry to the front seat. Just before he turned the key in the ignition he noticed the glare of headlights in his rearview mirror. Henry twisted around in his seat to witness four cars coming down the driveway.

"Shit," he whispered to himself.

It has to be the cops, he thought. They were smarter than Henry would've guessed, not turning on their sirens or lights. He reached down with his left hand and used the lever to recline the seat. This put him below the line of sight from outside the car.

There would be no reason for the police to stop at the little white farmhouse. Everything on this part of the property was dark and silent. They should be heading to the Chumansky residence, where there were still, as far as anyone knew, people in danger. Henry could hear the spitting of the gravel beneath the cars as they drove by. It was happening within a hundred feet of where he was lying in his car, motionless.

Henry wondered where Chum was right now. Was he in one of the police cars? If he was, was he in handcuffs? What had he told the officers? Was Sergeant Jackson one of the cops who had just driven by?

Once the sound of the cars faded, Henry put his seat back upright. He couldn't see what was going on at the Chumansky house from inside his car, but he assumed the police were just now noticing the destruction he had caused with the pickup truck.

Henry turned the car on but left the headlights off. There was enough light along the gravel road that he could make it to the county highway without them. When Henry reached the intersection to the highway, he paused and released a sigh.

Without a second thought, he turned the steering wheel to the right and headed north. After a quarter of a mile, he turned the headlights on.

And just like that, Henry Fields disappeared into the early morning darkness.
**X**

"Give me a quick briefing before you write your report, Sergeant," said Chief Nathan Perkins of the Gable Police Department. It was Monday morning and the entire station smelled like coffee and donuts. It had been a long and busy twenty-four hours, and Sergeant John Jackson was ready for some sleep.

"Around one thirty Sunday morning the department received a call that the alarm had been tripped at the Corner Store," Jackson began. "When officers arrived, they found the door unlocked and the lights on. Locked inside the store's cooler were three men: Franco Salazar and Rafael Menendez, both tied up, and Tom Chumansky."

"Tom Chumansky?" Perkins verified.

"Yes, sir. He was frantic and difficult to calm down or understand," Jackson explained, "but officers were eventually able to decipher that Chumansky's wife was being held at gunpoint in their house."

"Jesus Christ." Perkins was in his late fifties and had been on the force for almost thirty-five years. He could've retired long ago, but heading up the police in a small town with almost no crime had its advantages.

"When officers arrived at the Chumansky house, they immediately noticed a white pickup truck had been driven into it," Jackson continued.

"Into the house?" Perkins exclaimed.

"Yes, sir. Inside the house there were two more men tied up: Rodrigo Ramírez and Miguel Sánchez. They were being guarded with handguns by Chumansky's wife, Maddison, and Claire Mathison."

"Wait a minute. I thought you said the wife was being held at gunpoint." Perkins said. He took a sip of his fresh coffee and leaned back in his chair.

"That's correct. Give me one minute and I'll get to that, Chief," Jackson said. He was reciting the entire report from memory and knew if he got off track he would forget important details. "Also inside the house and suffering from a gunshot wound to the leg was Eddie Clark," Jackson explained. "An ambulance was dispatched immediately to the house. Clark was taken to Adler Regional, where surgery was performed to remove the bullet. He's in stable condition now."

"Thank God," Perkins mumbled sarcastically. "What would the world do without Fast Eddie?"

Jackson continued with his report as though he hadn't heard his boss's comment.

"There were two deceased bodies in the house, as well. Carlos Lopez and Marty Greenberg. Gunshot wounds to the head."

"Holy hell." Perkins hadn't expected this. There had never been a double homicide in Gable. The crime rate had remained extremely low for decades. Adler was a much larger breeding ground for murderers, thieves, and dealers. "So what happened?" Perkins inquired.

"What we've pieced together so far is this was some sort of drug-related ambush," Jackson said. "Salazar and Menendez allegedly pulled the trigger on the two victims. We're checking ballistics, residue, prints, and such. But I'm confident it will be confirmed. They're in custody right now. Ramírez and Sánchez are also in custody for their role."

"Great, we've got our own 'Little Mexico' right here in our cells," Perkins grunted. "Maybe we should charge the Adler P.D. rent."

Jackson continued without missing a beat. "We're convinced Chumansky was involved with these characters, but the Hispanic guys aren't talking. Chumansky's denying knowing anything, calling it 'mistaken identity.' Frankly, we've got nothing on him."

"So, what about the truck parked in the house?" Perkins asked him.

"Apparently there was another man involved, a Henry Fields. For the past several days he has been employed at the Corner Store and was a guest at the Chumansky house Saturday evening. Somehow, to thwart whatever Salazar and Menendez were trying to do, Fields lured the men to the Corner Store, where he and Chumansky were able to take them over. Now here's where it gets weird, Chief."

"Oh, _now_ it's gonna get weird?" Perkins joked.

"Yes, sir," Jackson said. "Chumansky claims he helped this Fields character tie up Salazar and Menendez. Then Fields blindsided Chumansky with a choke hold and locked him in the cooler with the other two."

"So maybe Fields is the one tied to these drug assholes," Perkins suggested.

"You'd think so," Sergeant John Jackson agreed. "But then why did he go back to the Chumansky house, drive Salazar's truck through the front door, and apprehend the goons who were holding the others hostage?"

"Why don't we just ask him?" Perkins suggested.

"We would if we could find him. It seems he skipped town shortly after this all went down," Jackson reported.

"See? Looks pretty guilty, don't you think?" Chief Perkins enjoyed making observations from behind the desk, even when he knew Jackson was going to have more to say. Asking the obvious questions helped his team think ahead. Jackson was his best officer, too. There wasn't a week that went by when Perkins didn't breathe a sigh of relief that Jackson had yet to turn in his resignation to leave for a bigger city. Working as a police sergeant in Gable was mainly traffic accidents and an occasional domestic dispute. Nathan Perkins knew this fell short of what most police officers had in mind when they were playing cops and robbers as kids.

"Yes, sir," Jackson agreed. "Running away definitely makes him look guilty. The problem is, according to Claire Mathison, that entire notion is ridiculous. She doesn't know why Fields took off, but she confirmed that Salazar was there specifically because of Chumansky and some money or cocaine he owed them."

"Really? What did the wife say?"

"Not much. But when he found out Fields had disappeared, Tom Chumansky began alluding to the idea that Fields was the one Salazar was after."

"Fishy. So if Chumansky is the real reason this all happened, why did Fields bolt?" Perkins wondered out loud.

"That's the million dollar question, sir," Jackson commented. "Fields was renting the old Chumansky farmhouse. We're searching it again today, but so far we haven't found much of anything other than a lonely cat."

"Got anything else?"

"Hodge is questioning Bruce Townsend, the Corner Store owner. But for now I'm going to get to work on the report and, if it's okay with you, grab some sleep when I'm finished."

"Sounds good, Jack. Have at it," Perkins said.

#

John Jackson sat at his desk writing the official report on the weekend's events. Being on the police force wasn't quite as exciting as it sounded; not in Gable, anyway. But it was a good job that was getting him plenty of experience. This case from the weekend was the most intriguing thing to take place in the area since Jackson joined the force eight years ago. Before then he had bounced around between the military and security jobs. While serving in the Army, he was deployed to Bosnia and worked protective service. It had been Jackson's favorite job: wearing civilian clothes and carrying a concealed firearm while guarding high ranking officials. His "Billy Bad Ass gig" was what he always called it.

Jackson was so deep in thought with his report that when his phone rang he didn't notice it until the second ring.

"Sergeant Jackson," he answered.

"Hi, Sergeant. This is Balinda Simmons from Channel 6 in Adler. I understand you're in charge of the investigation of the incident that took place over the weekend."

Jackson rolled his eyes.

"I am," he conceded. "But the info you've got is all I can tell you right now."

"No, no," Balinda said with a chuckle. She was used to getting brushed aside by the authorities. "I'm calling because I think I might be able to help you with something."

His ears perked up, but he was still skeptical.

"Sounds good to me. I'm listening," Jackson said.

"Well, you're looking for this man, Henry Fields. And you might already know this, but he helped out with the highway traffic accident that happened on Friday night."

"Yes, I met and spoke with Fields a couple of times last week, and I know what accident you're referring to," Jackson offered.

"Well, I did an interview with him the next morning because of the help he provided on the scene. The thing is, he was pretty adamant about not wanting to appear on camera," Balinda explained.

"That's kind of strange," Jackson stated. Now he was listening with every ounce of attention he could muster from his sleep-deprived body.

"Yes, I thought so, too," Balinda agreed. "The interview we ended up airing was audio only, with his blessing. But..."

She hesitated.

"...we still managed to capture some video of him."

Jackson snorted.

"In my defense," she explained, "it's not like we filmed him head-on without his knowledge. This is just some footage that happened to get recorded while we were setting things up."

"Despite the fact I've met him, we have no record of what he looks like so this is helpful," Jackson said. "But I should also mention he's not actually 'wanted' for any crime. We'd just like to talk to him and get his side of the story."

"I understand," Balinda said. "I just wanted to help out if I could. I've got some screenshots here I can email you if you'd like."

"That'd be great."

After giving her his email address, Jackson hung up the phone and went back to writing his report.

#

Jackson was putting the final touches on his police report when Officer Ryan Hodge walked into the station. It was almost ten thirty.

"Just in time," Jackson called out to him. "You got anything I should add to this?"

"Maybe," Hodge replied while walking to Jackson's desk. He sat down in the chair across from him before continuing. "Townsend said he believes the alarm was engaged because Fields intentionally didn't turn it off. Also, one of the guns we found at the farmhouse was Townsend's. He kept it at the store behind the counter, just in case."

"No surprise there," Jackson said.

"Yeah, but he did mention something that I thought was peculiar," Hodge said.

"What's that?" Jackson asked.

"I asked Townsend for Fields' employee paperwork. You know, his W-4 and I-9. He said he hadn't had Fields fill any out yet," Hodge explained.

"Not that unusual," Jackson replied. "He only worked there a week."

"Yeah, but then Townsend said Fields requested he be paid in cash," Hodge added. Jackson stroked his chin.

"Did we dust for any prints at the farmhouse?"

"No, because we didn't think we had a reason to," Hodge said.

"Let's go ahead and do it," Jackson ordered.

"You got it, Sarge." Officer Ryan Hodge turned and walked out the door.

Fields might not be wanted by the Gable Police Department for any crimes, but his behavior was sparking curiosity that warranted some extra effort. Jackson pulled up the criminal database and entered the name "Henry Fields." There were two matches. One of them was African-American and the other one was white but looked nothing like the Henry Fields Jackson had spoken to on multiple occasions. Jackson opened another window on his computer and checked for an email from Balinda Simmons. When he found it, he opened the attachment and stared at the video screen captures of Henry Fields, the superhero without a cape. Jackson thought it was interesting that Fields was involved in what could be described as two heroic incidents on consecutive nights. Was this guy trying to be a modern day superhero? Was the conversation Jackson had with Fields about superheroes more serious than he had thought? Of course, the other possibility was Fields had been a victim of circumstance, twice. After the drug-related incident on Saturday night, he might have been so spooked he simply skipped town. There's no law against doing that.

Jackson heard footsteps behind him. He could tell it was the chief by the sound of the walk. Two knee replacements and a lifetime of weight problems had made Nathan Perkins a perfect desk jockey.

"Guess who's coming to dinner?" Perkins asked. Jackson turned from his computer and leaned back in his chair, looking up at his boss.

"I give up," he replied.

"DEA," Perkins explained. "They're gonna take Tijuana back with them, too." He pointed with his thumb towards the jail cells.

"So we got ourselves some big players here, eh?" Jackson surmised.

"Something like that," Chief Perkins said. "They'd like our report and evidence...everything."

"St. Louis?" Jackson asked.

"Chicago. They'll be here for lunch," Perkins said as he began hobbling back to his office.

"I thought you said 'dinner'?" Jackson called back to him, realizing a nap was no longer in his future.

"It was a figure of speech, Jack," Chief Perkins grumbled.

"Cary Grant?" Jackson recognized the phrase "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" as a movie title.

Perkins let out a gruff belt of laughter before responding.

"Spencer Tracy and Sidney Poitier."

"I was close," Jackson retorted.

"No, you weren't."

#

When noon came and there was still no sign of the DEA, Chief Perkins sent Hodge to Stubby's to bring some sandwiches back to the station. Jackson had switched from drinking coffee to Diet Coke an hour earlier and after rummaging through the kitchen cupboard found a Nutty Bar that he split with the chief.

At twelve forty-five, a dark blue sedan pulled up to the station. A tall woman with long brown hair climbed out of the car with a briefcase. As she entered the building, she placed her sunglasses on top of her head. Jackson and Perkins rose from their desks to greet her.

"Chief Perkins?" she stuck her hand out and looked at him and then at Jackson.

"Yes, ma'am. That's me," Perkins responded by taking her hand and shaking it. "And this is Sergeant Jackson."

"I'm Agent Delia DeMarco," she said.

Jackson shook DeMarco's hand and sized her up at about five feet ten inches tall. This was an easy guess for him since it also happened to be his height.

The three of them sat down at the conference table. Chief Perkins offered her a sandwich, but Agent DeMarco declined, saying she had eaten something an hour ago. She explained that her initial intent was to be in Gable an hour earlier, but she ran into some road construction on Interstate 80 that slowed her down.

After giving her a brief rundown of Saturday night's events, it was time to discuss the next steps.

"We've never had anything like this go down in our small town," Chief Perkins explained. "Where do we go from here?"

"Well, we have a wagon on the way to take Salazar, Menendez, Ramírez, and Sánchez off your hands," DeMarco explained. "It should be here tomorrow." She began thumbing through the report as she continued to speak. "After that there's not much more for you to do other than provide a support system in case we need anything else. I'll take the rest of the day to conduct my own interviews with the witnesses. Looks like there's Claire Mathison, Bruce Townsend, Tom and Maddison Chumansky and...you say this Henry Fields is M.I.A.?"

"Yes, it seems that way," Jackson replied and then snapped his fingers. "But I just remembered something."

He trotted back to his desk and woke up his computer by shaking the mouse. Balinda Simmons's email was still opened on his monitor. He printed the two screenshots of Henry Fields and brought them back to the conference room.

"Up until a couple of hours ago we had no record of what he looked like. I received these photos from a local TV station. We still don't think Fields was involved with Salazar. But since he took off the way he did...you may as well have these for your file."

"Interesting," DeMarco said. "I appreciate it." She gathered all the paperwork into her briefcase and stood up. "Thanks again for your help, gentlemen," she said.

"Our pleasure," Chief Perkins said, handing her a couple of business cards. "Here are our cards, just in case."

After saying their goodbyes at the door, the two police officers walked back into the office.

"They didn't make them like that when I was in the academy," Perkins said. "She's a hot number."

"She could probably kick both of our asses at the same time," Jackson commented.

"Wouldn't that be fun?" Chief Perkins joked. He then paused and looked at his worn-out sergeant. "Go home and get some sleep, Jack. Thanks for staying."

#

At seven thirty that evening, Delia DeMarco rented a room at the Stone Creek Inn in Adler. It had been a long day, and she needed a good night's sleep before hitting the road and heading back to the Windy City. The Stone Creek Inn was a comfortable and quiet hotel with an adjoining restaurant. After grabbing some dinner, she went back to her room, took a quick shower, and got dressed for bed. She opened her briefcase and laid the report and paperwork in front of her on the desk.

She picked up the pictures of Henry Fields and studied them for a moment. Nothing about him jumped out at her. She knew all the major players, of course, but there were always ones out there she didn't know.

Agent DeMarco reached into her briefcase for her smartphone. Using its camera, she scanned a picture of Henry Fields and uploaded it to the FBI database. She included a message that read: "Request facial recognition."

DeMarco didn't know if it would come back with any type of match, but having the FBI take a look wouldn't hurt anything. Chances were good this guy was just a drifter. He more than likely had had enough excitement and near-death experiences to last a lifetime and decided to run away from it all.

She set her phone down and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she returned a few minutes later, her phone was already flashing. Delia picked it up, glanced at the results, and did a quick double take. She had expected the results to come back negative. Squinting to make sure she was seeing everything accurately, it became clear to her there was a match. But something wasn't right about it. Reaching into her briefcase, Delia grabbed the business cards she had received from the Gable Police. She tried to reach Chief Perkins first, but it went to voicemail. Sergeant Jackson answered on the second ring.

"Sergeant, this is Delia DeMarco," she said.

"Yes ma'am," Jackson replied as politely as possible. It wasn't every day the DEA called his mobile phone. He was sitting in a recliner watching television.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late," Delia said, "but I just discovered something I thought you should know before I turned it over to the FBI."

In one motion, Jackson pulled the lever on his recliner and sat up.

"Wow. Ok. What's that?"

"The Henry Fields story piqued my curiosity, so I ran the pictures you gave me through facial recognition in the FBI database. It came back with an eighty-one percent match."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Jackson asked, wondering if it meant Fields had a police record. But that wouldn't explain why DeMarco was turning it over to the FBI.

"Henry Fields is not Henry Fields," Delia explained. "His name is Barrett Greyson. And he's wanted for questioning about his involvement in a murder."

"Really?" Jackson exclaimed. His wife shushed him to not wake up their children. "Are you sure?" Jackson added, more quietly this time.

"Eighty-one percent sure, Sergeant."

TO BE CONTINUED

(Turn the page, dear reader)
WANT TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS to Henry and the rest? Start reading **_Grey Areas 2_** __ right now. Or even better, save yourself some money and buy all 4 books in the serial at once with **_Grey Areas - The Saga_**. (Due to restrictions I cannot put links to the books here. But I'm sure you can find 'em!)

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