Brian Freeman - Spilled Blood

It took him twenty minutes to twist his way down the roads like he was playing a game of Tetris, and he got lost more than once. He’d only been to Kirk’s U-Stor garage three or four times, and the roads out here all looked alike. Same fields. Same dirt. No signs. Finally, he saw the driveway and the run-down double row of locked storage units behind the red doors. No one else was around.

Lenny parked in front of Kirk’s garage and got out. He had a few swallows of beer left, and as he drank, some of it leaked down his chin. He was still buzzed from the overnight hours. His head swam. He heard the noisy squawk of a crow in a tall oak tree, and he could see the bird, big and black, perched on a high branch. It yelled at him and wouldn’t quit, and the annoying caw caw made his headache worse.

‘Shut the fuck up, bird,’ Lenny shouted. The crow didn’t quit. It screeched louder, as if it were laughing at him. He found a rock on the ground, and he hoisted it at the tree, but his aim wasn’t even close. The crow aired its wings defiantly.

Caw caw. It kept laughing.

Lenny spat on the ground. Damn bird.

He walked around to the tailgate of the pick-up and squeezed his hand under the dirty bumper near the left rear tire. Kirk kept the locker key in a hidden magnetic case, rather than on his key ring. Fiddling with his fingers, Lenny found it and pried it off the inside of the bumper. He squeezed the case open and found the key, and he undid the padlock on the metal door.

Lenny went inside, leaving the door open behind him. The musty garage was where Kirk kept everything he didn’t want the cops to find. He saw the file cabinets with Kirk’s records, his gun cases, and boxes of thumb drives and overstuffed folders spilling across his brother’s desk. Kirk would come here and play Tim McGraw on his iPod and copy porn for his customers and count his money.

Money. Lenny needed money.

He spotted the two-foot safe with the combination lock shoved against the rear wall. He squatted and spun the dial, entering the four numbers he’d memorized: 17-4-19-26. The door opened with a click as he wrenched the lever to the right. He spilled the heavy box forward, dumping the contents, and he whistled in delight. Stacks of cash, tied with rubber bands, littered the floor. Dozens of them. A fortune. He didn’t stop to count; there must have been thousands of dollars here, enough to last him a year or more on the run.

He also saw a lone USB flash drive, no bigger than a stick of gum. It was labeled in thick letters with black marker. Daddy .

Lenny knew what it was, but he didn’t care. Not now. He could deal with it later. He stuffed everything back into the safe and spun the combination lock. He lifted up the safe, grunting at its weight, and hauled it awkwardly in his arms to the truck, where he dumped the metal box on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He exhaled in relief. You’re rich, Leno. He could go anywhere he wanted now. Mexico maybe. He could buy himself a brown girl and live on the beach.

First things first. He had things to do. He needed guns.

Kirk stored his rifles in a locked cabinet, and he kept the key in the top drawer of the desk. Lenny found it and swung the doors wide, and he gasped in awe, studying the trove of weaponry. He smelled wood oil. Light bounced off the mirrored interior of the cabinet. He ran a finger down the black metal of the barrels. His hands got sweaty as he fondled the sleek mechanisms of the rifles. He’d only fired two guns in his life, a bolt-action Remington deer rifle and a Ruger semiautomatic that was like an eight-inch penis. Kirk had taken him hunting north of Thief River Falls last fall. Lenny hadn’t made a kill, but he’d loved the deadly power of the weapons in his grip. Guns didn’t ask if you were short or tall, strong or weak, brave or scared.

Lenny took the Remington into his arms, cradling the butt under his shoulder, aiming at the trees beyond the garage door. ‘Bang,’ he said, squeezing the trigger, hearing the empty click. In the desk drawer he found boxes of gold cartridges gleaming like tiny rockets. He took the Remington and the ammunition and loaded it all in the pick-up next to the driver’s seat.

Handguns. He wanted those, too. Kirk had lots, stored on the metal shelves. You could never have too many. They’re like potato chips, Leno. He found the Ruger he’d used when shooting targets with Kirk; he loaded the clip and shoved it in his belt. He didn’t know if he’d need more, but he found an empty packing box and dumped the rest of the guns and clips inside and carried the whole mess to the truck.

He had everything he wanted for now. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever come back here. It was time to go, but he stood in the mud, with the pick-up door open and the garage door open, and he couldn’t move. He was frozen. The loneliness of the world landed on his shoulders again, making him feel sick and small. He could put on cool shades, he could load the truck with guns, but that didn’t change who he was. He wasn’t Kirk.

Over his shoulder, he heard the crow, still taunting him from its perch in the tree. Caw caw caw , making his head throb. The bird knew his secrets and his fears. The bird wasn’t afraid of him.

Lenny yanked the Ruger from his belt.

‘Shut up!’ he screamed again, but the crow only screeched louder.

He aimed at the tree and squeezed the trigger, and the gun went off with a bang, making him lose his balance. The shot went off into the sky, nowhere near the bird, which spread its wings again as if to say, can’t hit me, can’t hit me . He fired again, blasting away bits of bark. And again. And again.

The crow, bored with the game, flew away, laughing as it disappeared beyond the treetops.

‘ What the hell are you shooting at, kid? ’

Lenny spun around at the voice behind him. He saw a man in his sixties standing near the pick-up with his hands on his hips. The old man wore a Twins baseball cap, a Vikings sweatshirt, and camouflage pants. His boots were half-laced. He had a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. His eyes were angry.

‘Are you crazy?’ the man went on. ‘Put that gun down.’

Lenny had his arm extended, the barrel of the gun pointed upward at the tree, even though the crow was long gone. Their eyes met, his and the old man’s. They were the only two people for miles around. Lenny didn’t even know where the man had come from, but his car must have been parked out of sight behind the other row of storage units.

The old man glanced into the truck, and watching his face twitch, Lenny knew he’d seen the guns. Casually, the man shifted his eyes the other way, into the storage unit, where the gun locker with Kirk’s rifles was open. His expression morphed from anger to worry. His voice got lower and softer.

‘So what exactly are you doing here, son?’

Lenny swung the pistol and pointed it at the man’s chest. ‘None of your fucking business, old man. Who the hell are you?’

The man raised his hands defensively. ‘Nobody, son. You just look like you could use some help. How about you put away the gun, and the two of us talk for a little while?’

Lenny marched on him menacingly, jabbing at him with the Ruger. The old man was six inches taller than Lenny. Everyone was taller than Lenny. ‘Get the hell out of here.’

The old man stood his ground. They were six feet apart. ‘I have to be honest, you’re making me nervous with that gun. I’d feel better if you put it down.’

‘Just get out of here! Go!’ Lenny’s voice quavered.

‘Whatever you’re doing, I think you’re in over your head, son. Put that gun down, and let’s talk about it.’

‘If you don’t get out of here, I’ll shoot,’ Lenny swore. ‘I will.’