M Sellars - Perfect Trust

“I was under the impression that we had just discussed this, Rowan” was all she said.

“We did, Helen.” I sighed as I withdrew the gun from the worn leather and checked to make certain it was loaded. Then I looked back over my shoulder at her. “We just didn’t reach the conclusion you wanted. I appreciate everything you said. I really do. And, to be honest, I’m sure you’re right, and I’m wrong. But, right now I need you to get out of the van.”

“Why, Rowan?”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Tell me what you are going to do, Rowan.”

“Tempered glass doesn’t really break as easy as they make it look like in the movies” was all I said.

The anger had blossomed far beyond the most severe level I had been able to imagine. I was so consumed with it that I had gone beyond blind rage and moved completely into calculated hatred.

Helen did exactly what she should have done. She tried to stall me by refusing to get out of the vehicle. But I had ventured well to the other side of reason, and since I’d expected her to use this tactic, I was more than ready to call her bluff. I climbed across and into the driver’s seat and then adjusted it forward enough to reach the pedals.

She continued to calmly talk to me as I twisted the key and fired up the engine.

She never once lost her cool as I slowly backed the van across the lot in order to make enough room to build up speed.

She finally got out when it became obvious to her that I was going to go through with my plan whether she did so or not.

I was already standing on the brake and revving the engine until it was screaming when she exited through the sliding door. When I felt certain she was safely away, I let off the brake and the van bucked hard as it lurched forward.

From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my friend racing around the side of the building as he watched his van fly across the asphalt toward the front of the structure. I braced myself with my arms stiff against the steering wheel and glanced quickly down.

The speedometer read 32 miles per hour when the nose of the Chevy leaped over the curb and connected with the plate glass windows.

The initial impact was utterly surreal.

Countless shards of glass showered the front of the van, sparkling in the glow of the exterior lights like a torrential downpour of semi-precious stones. The tortured scream of the over wound engine was joined by the multi-pitched peal of the shattering windows, and at that moment everything seemed to stop for the briefest instant. Languishing in an otherworldly vortex, devoid of the passage of time for only a tiny fraction of a second before rushing headlong into insane reality once again.

The jarring crash reverberated up my stiffly locked arms and rattled my entire body. I fought hard to hit the brakes, missing twice before finally connecting with the pedal and raking my shin on the underside of the dash as I flopped around in the seat.

The vehicle bucked hard and plowed directly into the front counter, splintering the base and laminated top as it pushed it from its mounting place on the floor. I pitched forward on the second impact, and my face bounced against my hands at the top of the steering wheel. My breath was forced from my lungs, and I grunted hard as I was then lashed backward into the seat.

Intense quiet suddenly filled the passenger cabin of the vehicle. All motion had come to an end, and I was staring through the windshield at the dark interior of the front office area. I regained my breath and reached for my pocket where I’d stuffed the revolver before starting my run at the building. My fingers contacted the smooth surface of the weapon, and I tightly clutched my fist around it. Shouldering the door open, I climbed out of the van and landed unsteadily on a pile of glass and former countertop.

The engine was idling roughly-sputtering and choking as it fought to remain alive. The sharp odor of photographic chemistries mixed with the stale water funk of engine coolant. A cloud of steam was rising steadily from the front of the Chevy, and I could hear water splattering on the floor. In the distance to my back, I could hear Ben screaming my name. In front of me, through an open doorway, I could hear the muted strains of Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”

My body was already starting to ache, and I could taste blood in my mouth. I ignored it and pressed forward. Just over thirty seconds had passed since the van had first struck the windows. I was immediately worried by the fact that Harold hadn’t come running to investigate the horrendous noise. I was certain that he was here, and so was Felicity. Fear gripped me as I wondered about what he might have already done to her.

I heard my name called again, closer now. Ben was sure to be coming to stop me. There was no longer any time to think, there was only time to act. Picking my way around the debris I stepped quickly through the doorway and into the dark corridor.

I could hear the muffled sound of someone frantically rushing about intermixing with the low tones of the music, so I followed it. I heard the dying sputter of the van behind me as it gave one final cough before shutting down. My footfalls were echoing through the darkness at their own frenetic pace, and Ben’s voice was growing even louder. He would be upon me soon.

I met the door at the end of the hall at almost a dead run. I simply assumed that it would be locked. Whether it was or not, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be sure. At any rate, the discount-store-special pre-hung barrier gave way on the second strike. The luan-encased frame shattered at the handle, splintering loudly as the door swung inward on its hinges.

The pistol was stiff-armed in front of me in my right hand as I pushed through the opening and into the large, dimly lit room. My bad shoulder had been the battering ram for the door, and it now burned with absolute agony. My ears were filled with a rush of noise, and I realized that it was my own tortured scream as the pain blossomed outward.

The room was laid out as a studio. Light stands strategically placed with gel filters resting in holders. Reflective umbrellas perched at angles, pointing diagonally toward the ceiling in order to shower their bounced luminance back down onto the scene. Rolls of backdrop fabrics were suspended from a wheeled rack in a cascade, ready to be spooled out behind the subject.

In the center of it all was a chair, and in that chair sat my wife, clad in an ornate wedding gown and staring vacantly into space. A garish mask of makeup was painted onto her face, lending an almost plastic quality to her features.

“NO!” a distinct and vile male voice screamed from the shadows. “She’s MINE!”

I’d heard the voice before. I’d even felt the ragged insanity of it inside my own head. I twisted toward the words, and my eyes came to rest on Harold. He was standing twenty feet away from Felicity and twenty yards away from me, a camera in one hand and a cigarette protruding between the middle two fingers of the other. He stepped closer to the chair as if to protect a prized possession.

“Stay away from her!” I screamed at him, tracking his movement with the pistol in my outstretched hand.

I wanted him dead. I wanted him dead right now. But I had a huge problem and I knew it. He was far too close to her and I was a lousy shot.

“She’s MINE and you can’t have her!” he screamed back at me with crazed defiance in his eyes. “She doesn’t want you! She wants ME!”

If I was in a movie, I knew I would have a suitably dramatic line to deliver. Somehow, reality just isn’t quite like the movies. All I could muster was a hoarse scream of, “Get away from her, you bastard!”