Scott Nicholson - Curtains

Richard raced back to his Honda with the wallet and Eleanor’s rings. He dumped them with the knife into a Ziploc he’d brought with him and stuffed his coveralls and rubber gloves into a trash bag. Peeling out of the parking lot, he headed for San Jose.

At a gas station outside San Jose, Richard filled up and dumped the trash bag in a nearby dumpster. Five miles from the gas station, he tossed the knife out the window and down a freeway embankment. Parking outside Spartan Stadium, he still had the wallet to get rid off. The rings and the wallet’s contents he would keep for now and dispose of down a storm drain on the way home. He opened up Ted’s wallet and tugged out his cash, credit cards and driver’s license.

On the drive to the game, he’d been on a high, delirious to be rid of his burden, but not anymore. The driver’s license pictured a man who wasn’t his father-in-law. Just to reinforce the calamity, the credit cards didn’t have Ted’s name on them, but instead, the name Thomas Fairfax. The rings he held in his palm weren’t Eleanor’s. He’d killed the wrong people.

“Oh God,” he murmured.

Richard stumbled into the stadium on uncertain legs, water gurgled in his ears and he couldn’t breathe. He dropped Fairfax’s empty wallet into a nearby trashcan. He handed his ticket to the yellow-jacketed ticket taker. He climbed the steep steps to his seat, not taking the free program offered.

Goals flew into the back of the net one after another. The San Jose Earthquakes were having a landmark game, but Richard couldn’t raise a smile. The murders of two strangers weighed heavily on him, but that wasn’t what was worrying him. Ted and Eleanor were still alive. That meant he had it all to do again.

The fifth goal went in and the crowd leapt to their feet. A man noticed Richard was the only one who wasn’t cheering. “LA can’t win them all, buddy.”

Richard said nothing and the man dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The game ended and Richard trudged back to his Honda. He’d left the car on a residential street and trash and recycle cans for the following morning’s pick up blocked it in. He dumped the Fairfax’s belongings in a can.

Driving home, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t use the same MO to kill Ted and Eleanor now. It was so perfect, but his bungled murders would lead to better security at the park. He couldn’t afford to be hasty, but time was against him. Ted and Eleanor would be evicted in less than a week.

How could he have been so wrong? It had sounded like them. It had looked like them. How did he kill the wrong people?

Richard’s question went unanswered. The eighteen-wheeler changed the subject. The semi’s blowout rendered the rig helpless and the trailer section plowed into the Honda’s passenger side. From the frenetic action inside the cab, the truck driver was doing a valiant job, but he lost the good fight. The eighteen-wheeler smeared Richard’s car across the freeway and drove it into the median.

Richard awakened in a hospital bed. Molasses-thick memories trickled back into his consciousness. Progress was slow. He tried to move but he only managed to move his head.

Suddenly with the intensity of a thunderbolt, he remembered and began to cry. The accident had left him a quadriplegic, but he wasn’t crying because he was incapacitated for life. He was remembering what Michelle had said to him the day after the accident.

“We’ve all decided,” she said. Standing on either side of her, Ted and Eleanor nodded and smiled. “There’s no point in buying a second home, Mom and Dad can live with us. They will look after you while I’m at work. Just think, honey, we can all be one big happy family. It’s the safest solution too. Did you know there were two murders near their home last night?”

“The only Jew in town,” Morris said as Laney pulled into the church parking lot.

He pointed to the stained-glass window cut into the middle of the belfry. It looked expensive, more than a little country church could afford. Jesus smiled down from the window, arms spread in welcome and acceptance.

“The story’s about the sewing circle, not the church,” Laney said.

“Jesus as a ragpicker. Was that in the Bible?”

“You’re too cynical.”

“No, I’m just a frustrated idealist.”

Morris rubbed his stomach. He’d gone soft from years at a desk, his only exercise the occasional outdoor feature story, usually involving a free meal. He’d given up the crime beat, preferring to do the “little old lady in the holler” stuff, the cute little profile features that offended no one. Still, the fucking quilt beat was the bottom rung on the ladder he’d started climbing back down a decade ago.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Laney said. She was the staff photographer, and true to her trade, she managed to keep a perspective on things. Cautious yet upbeat, biding time, knowing her escape hatch was waiting down the road. For Morris, there was no escape hatch. The booby hatch, maybe.

“‘Fun’ is the Little League All-Stars, a Lion’s Club banquet where they give out a check the size of Texas, a quadriplegic doing a power wheelchair charity run from the mountains to the coast. But this”-he flipped his notebook toward the little Primitive Baptist church, its walls as white as pride in the morning sun-”Even my Grandma would yawn over a sewing circle story.”

“You can juice it up,” Laney said as she parked. She always drove because she had two kids and needed the mileage reimbursement. All Morris had was a cat who liked to shit in the bathtub.

“That’s what I do,” he said. “A snappy lead and some filler, then cash my checks.”

Though the checks were nothing to write home about. He’d written home about the first one, way back when he was fresh out of journalism school. Mom had responded that it was very nice and all but when was he getting a real job? Dad had no doubt muttered into his gin and turned up the sound to “Gunsmoke.” They didn’t understand that reporting was just a stepping stone to his real career, that of bestselling novelist and screenwriter for the stars.

They headed into the church alcove, Laney fidgeting with her lenses. Morris had called ahead to set up the appointment. He’d talked briefly to Faith Gordon, who apparently organized the group though she wasn’t a seamstress herself. The sewing circle met every Thursday morning, rain, shine, flood, or funeral. Threads of Hope, the group called itself. Apparently it was a chapter of a national organization, and Morris figured he’d browse the Web later to snip a few easy column inches of back story.

The alcove held a couple of collection boxes for rags. Scrawled in black marker on cardboard were the words: “Give your stuff.” Morris wondered if that same message was etched into the bottoms of the collection plates that were passed around on Sundays. Give your stuff to God, for hope, for salvation, for the needles of the little old ladies in the meeting room.

“Hello here,” came a voice from the darkened hallway. A wizened man emerged into the alcove, hunched over a push broom, his jaw crooked. He leaned against the broom handle and twisted his mouth as if chewing rocks.

“We’re from the Journal-Times,” Morris said. “We came about the sewing circle.”

One of the man’s eyes narrowed as he looked over Laney’s figure. He chewed faster. “‘M’on back,” he said, waving the broom handle to the rear of the church. He let the two of them go first, no doubt to sweep up their tracks as he watched Laney’s ever-popular rear.

The voices spilled from the small room, three or four conversations going at once. Morris let Laney make the entrance. She had a way of setting people at ease, while Morris usually set them on edge. His style was fine on the local government beat, when you wanted to keep the politicians a little paranoid, but it didn’t play well among the common folk in the Appalachian mountain community of Cross Valley.