Town on Fire Read online

  Labor Day Weekend

  Thursday

  Chapter 1

  The old man pulls his black Lincoln into the gravel driveway and up the hill to his modest, but paid-off, house. The home sits on top of a small ridge and like everything else in Twisted Timbers, is surrounded by trees. He worked all his life to pay off the mortgage, which he was able to accomplish a couple of months back. Now he owns the house outright and there’s nothing anyone can do to take it away. His only regret is that his wife Dorothy, who he met in high school, passed away a year before he was able to make the final payment to the bank.

  He grabs the bag from the passenger seat of the car and heads into the house. There are several maintenance issues that he notices around the property, but nothing more glaring than the rusted door that his son promised to fix months ago. He hates that he must leave the deadbolt unlocked on the few occasions in which he leaves the house. There isn’t a feeling of needing to lock the door, Twisted Timbers is a safe place to live for the most part, but he has spent his whole life accumulating the things inside his home. There are things that evoke memories for him, of a lifetime that is now nearing its end.

  The wooden stairs that lead to the wrap around porch squeak under the weight of the man. His body was much more formidable in his younger days, but as he reaches his seventieth birthday, he has lost several pounds and his body shows the signs of the times. He enters through the front door and gives a shout to his wife that he’s home, even though she’s been gone for some time now. Old habits die hard and he refuses to believe that he is living his life alone, something he hasn’t done since he got married.

  The cancer came quick for Dorothy and her struggle was a short one. When you lose a person that you spent your entire life with, you no longer know how to live alone. His days are filled with reading his favorite crime books, reminiscing over the times he shared with his wife, and arguing with his son Harry. He knows the boy is busy but ever since his mother passed away, he hardly ever comes home and refuses to carry on a conversation with his father that doesn’t end in him storming out. The old man can only look at the deteriorating relationship with his son from a distance. It is hard enough for the man to get around, chasing his busy son would be virtually impossible.

  The old man checks his son’s room every morning, and feels the disappointment when he sees the bed has not been slept in. He has no idea where Harry spends his nights, nor does he care. He knows he raised his son better than how he is acting, so the old man could care less what the boy is doing. The death of his mother was hard on Harry, but it was hard on the old man as well. His son has his own job, an important job, and several people in his life to keep him busy. Dorothy passed away shortly after the old man retired from the high school, where he taught for almost as long as they lived in this run-down house. Since she left, he has lived his life virtually alone.

  He thinks about getting something to eat from the fridge but the ride home from Portland took more out of him than he thought it would. He places the bag of books on the table next to his easy chair, his favorite place in the house. Usually at this time of evening he would turn the news on the television, with the sound down, and read until he fell asleep in the chair. Tonight however, he doesn’t feel like watching the news and seeing his son’s face, which is plastered on the screen with increasing regularity.

  The old man grabs a crocheted blanket from the pile near the couch and has a seat in his chair. This blanket is his favorite that Dorothy ever made, and she made many. This one is softer than the others, maybe due to the fabric or maybe she did a new kind of stitch pattern, either way he loves the way it hugs his aging body. He plops down in the chair and reaches for the bag of books he bought at the booksellers in Portland. His son told him he could just have his books shipped to the house to save the trip into the city, but the old man likes the smell of fresh books and enjoys talking to the women who work at the store. He spent his life studying the English language, and teaching it, and believes some things just don’t get better with advances in technology. Being able to look a person in the face while discussing a book is one of the things the old man has loved for many years.

  He searches through the paperbacks for the book he wants to start tonight, the latest Stephen King thriller. He is not usually a fan of King, but the nice lady in the store told him this book was more of a mystery and less gory than the works that made the author famous. He opens the book to the dedication page and instantly remembers that it isn’t just the gore that turned him away from King books, but also the profanity. He has no issue if the words are integral in the telling of the story, but to go so far as to include them in the dedication is preposterous to the old-timer. He slams the book shut and puts it on the side table and grabs a different paperback from the bag. Before he can even check to see which one he picked up, hoping for the latest Stephanie Plum book, his breath is taken away by two large hands that have grabbed ahold of his neck.

  He feels helpless. Whoever has ahold of him is strong and has leverage on him by standing behind the chair. He can feel the muscles in his neck being pinched, making it impossible to scream for help or even swallow. He can feel the tears forming on the corner of his eyelids as he struggles to open them. Once he does, he is confronted by a stranger standing in front of him. The thought of these men being in his home sends a shiver of fear through his body. This was not what he had in mind when he prayed for companionship in his life.

  The man in front of him is much younger and Hispanic. The caramel skin tone and dark hair gives away his ethnicity right away. His locks are tucked under a Giants ballcap and he stands in front of the old man with just enough of a smile to show the missing tooth on the right side of his mouth. The look in the foreigner’s eyes is unlike anything the old man has ever seen before. It is the look of someone who has bad intentions. The look of someone who always has bad intentions.

  The old man has no idea who is standing behind him but judging by the strength in his hands it has to be someone powerful. He can almost feel his esophagus crumble under the pressure. No one has said a word in the few seconds since his breath was taken away. He sits there staring at the man in front of him, trying to figure out what they are doing here. He doesn’t have much cash in the house, anyone who looked at the dilapidated structure from the outside would surely know that, so he quickly rules out that these guys are here to rob the place.

  The intruder in front of him pulls the toothpick from his mouth, which the old man never even noticed, and begins to speak in broken English. “Que pasa? You have money? Our boss wants the money you owe him, or mi hermano will squish your neck like a raisin.”

  The old man feels the hands on his neck loosen for the first time, allowing air to flow almost normally. He heard the words the man said, which makes his skin crawl at the poor grammar and combination of two different languages flowing together in one thought, but he doesn’t know how to respond. What money are they looking for and who is their boss? Did he just call the other guy his brother? That is the translation of hermano as far as the old man knows. He taught English, not Spanish, but faintly remembers hearing the term in something that he read several years ago. Either way, it makes no difference what he called the guy with the strong hands, the old man has no idea who these men are and what they want.

  He says nothing. He simply stares back at the man with a puzzled look, focusing more on breathing and staying alive than giving in and telling the man he has no idea what he is talking about. This obviously angers the dark-skinned man as he raises his ballcap, rubs his hand through his already slicked back hair and forcefully throws the hat against the couch. He looks at the old man in distain and inches closer to the chair.

  “Phew, you a tough old gringo, huh. Jose w
ill show you who’s tougher hombre.” He reaches for the plastic bag on the side table and dumps out the remaining books onto the floor. Quickly, the Mexican throws the bag over the old man’s head as his brother maneuvers his hands to hold it tight against his face. The slow stream of air that his body was getting moments earlier, has now been cut off completely. Every breath is a struggle, the warmness of the air hitting his throat letting him know the oxygen is quickly running out.

  Chapter 2

  The old man has barely moved, resigned to the fact that these two men are bigger and younger, an advantage he lost decades ago. He tries to control his breathing as best as he can, but when there is no air to breath, controlling it is impossible. His body remains still. He has read enough crime books to know that in situations like this a person is best served by staying calm. Flailing about will only increase your heart rate and cause your body to need more oxygen to survive, more oxygen that his body is currently being deprived of.

  He listens intently but hears nothing coming from outside of his plastic cocoon. He runs through his mental rolodex, looking for anyone of Hispanic ethnicity that he may have borrowed money from in the past. He can’t think of a single person. There have not been too many foreigners who have come to Twisted Timbers in the last forty years, so it doesn’t take long for the man to decide that these men must be looking for someone else. He just hopes he will be given the opportunity to convince them of that before they kill him.

  A long period of silence allows the old man to gather his thoughts. When he was teaching, in the later years when the kids felt much more entitled, he practiced a meditation technique that Dorothy taught him. She would have him close his eyes and focus on being alone in a cave. He was only allowed to picture things in his mind that were his favorites, a new book, a well written essay from a student, this soft blanket on his legs. This technique worked at calming him down, especially thinking about the blanket. When the Mexican man got close enough to put the bag over his head he must have stepped on the bottom of it, causing it to slide down the old man’s legs. He reaches down with his brittle hands and pulls it back up over his lap.

  That’s the moment he realizes it. His hands are not bound and the main thing that is restricting his breathing is a cheap plastic bag. He reaches up and rips the thin bag apart, gasping for the freshness of the air that tickles his senses. He takes three long breaths before he thinks to look around for the guy that was standing in front of him.

  He hears the footsteps come from around the corner, from the kitchen, but he can’t turn his head to see who it is. His fears are realized when he hears the accent and horrible grammar again.

  “Hooray for the old-time fart. He must be a smarty pants. Usually it takes much longer for people to reach for the bag and rip it.” He once again looks at the old man with a slimy smile, one that has no sympathy for the pain the man is feeling in his neck. “Now, old man, I am going to ask you some questions and you need to tell the truth.”

  The old man squirms a little in his chair, feels the blood surging through the hands that grip his neck and looks at the man in front of him. He knows he will tell this man anything he wants to know, as long as it gets them out of his house. He simply nods, refusing to speak and feel the burn in his wind pipe.

  “El Carnicero wants his money. Do you have his money?” Every final syllable the man speaks is drawn out for a beat or two too long.

  Who is El Carnicero and why would I owe him money? The old man has no idea what the man in front of him is talking about and the translation of the name is lost on him. As versed as he is in the English language, he is equally ignorant when it comes to foreign languages. He shakes his head as much as he can, letting the man in the Giants cap know that he has no money for anyone.

  “Wrong answer!” The man with the toothpick in his mouth screams, raises his hand high into the air and before the old man can react, he slams a butcher knife into his left hand. The tip of the knife goes through the soft fleshy portion of skin just behind the knuckles and completely through the hand, embedding itself in the padding and wooden frame of the arm rest to the chair.

  For a brief moment the man chuckles out loud, happy that his melee hit the intended target. The old man grabs for the knife with his good arm, but his efforts are only rewarded with tighter squeezing from the faceless man who diligently stands post behind him.

  “OK hombre, let’s try this again. This is the Billings house, it says so on the mailbox out front. I know this is the Billings house and the man that owes El Carnicero money is named Billings, Harry Billings. It does not take a rocket surgeon to see that you must be him.” The Hispanic man looks pleased at himself and gives a slight nod to the man behind the chair, who in turn releases most of the pressure from the old man’s neck.

  “I am Harold Billings, Harry is my son. I have not seen him in a few days.”

  “Wrong answer again!” shouts the Mexican. While great accuracy he slams a second knife through the right hand of the old man. It went through his skin in exactly the same spot, once again becoming lodged in the wood beneath the cushion of the arm rest.

  The senior Billings tries to scream, but his words are muted by raspy breaths. He looks down at the blood that has begun to trickle down his pale skin from the knife wounds. He is pinned to his chair, unable to free himself. He finally gets his first look at the man who had remained hidden up until now, keeping a vice-like grip on his neck and blocking his airway. If the first man called him his brother, then they are the oddest pair of siblings Mr. Billings has ever seen. This second man stands head and shoulders above the first man, with broad shoulders and muscles that seem to be jumping out of his under-sized t-shirt.

  The two visitors turn their back to the old man, without looking at each other. The talker of the two stops before reaching the door and turns back. “We’ll be back gramps. Don’t go anywhere.” The smaller man intended this statement as a joke, but the Mexican men were the only ones laughing, letting out loud whoops as they slammed the front door behind them.

  As he sits in his living room stuck to the chair by the sharp knives from his very own kitchen, the old man can’t help to worry about his son. His son has always been mischievous to say the least, but this time it looks like he may be in a little over his head. The old man vows that he will call Sheriff Thompson as soon as he frees himself, if he doesn’t pass out first. He laughs slightly to himself, not at the severity of his current situation but at the Stephen King book that was tossed on the floor and landed with the dedication page facing outward. The same line that turned the old man off on the book now seems ominously relevant. Four words that the old man didn’t understand in the context of the dedication, but they become more meaningful after the events of the last few minutes. “Shit don’t mean shit”

  Chapter 3

  There has been no need for Sheriff Mitch Thompson to set an alarm clock for the last month and a half. Since they have been together, no matter how late they are up, Sloane Nichols is out the door on her morning run and back in the apartment before he begins to stir in bed. She usually greets him with a kiss as he starts to wipe the sleep from his eyes, but today is his off day. The last off day before the end of the tourist season. In four short days, Twisted Timbers will hold the annual Labor Day Parade marking the final days of the busy season. Soon, the town will resort back to the way it is for eight months of the year, before the temporary shops open and the campgrounds become overcrowded with city folks looking for relaxation.

  Sloane has let him sleep in this morning, but he watches her move around the kitchen. Like she normally does, she has found one of his old shirts to put on after showering. He loves the way her body looks in it. The shirt covers just enough of her body to leave Mitch wanting to see the rest. She shuffles about, making coffee and a bagel in his kitchen, with no clue that he has been checking her out for the last five minutes.

  He doesn’t remember when it was assumed that she would start living with him, but he’s not upse
t about it. It’s nice having someone else in the apartment, especially someone who makes his old shirts look that good. Their relationship started out innocently enough, but after only a couple of weeks, they had become more serious and exclusive. She now must know that he is watching her because she does a sexy spin in her bare feet and raises the bottom of the shirt slightly. He loves her legs, even though he has no desire to join her in the hours of running she does to keep them that way.

  He knows he’s been caught looking at her when she heads for the bedroom with two mugs. He follows her with his eyes as she sets the mugs on the nightstand, still refusing to acknowledge that she knows he’s awake. Like she had been shot from a cannon she hurls herself across the bed and lands on top of Mitch, her muscular legs straddling his body.

  “I caught you, you perv!” The smile stretches across her face and her still damp hair falls to the left side of her face. “You know, you could get into a lot of trouble for looking at girls that way.”

  “The way I see it Miss, this is my apartment. If women don’t want me to look at them that way, they shouldn’t stand half naked in my kitchen.” He has gotten used to her odd sense of humor a little quicker than he had thought he would. She was raised by men, so it was peculiar at first that she would find the same things funny that Mitch did.

  The last six weeks have flown by in his mind. It seems like it was just yesterday when he had wondered if he had a chance with the older woman. Not only did he have a chance with her, but she made the first move, much to his delight. She came on strong, like how she is perched on top of him at the moment. He loves the smell of her body and the way her skin feels when it touches his.

  “There are men in this world who would pay good money to have half-naked women bring them coffee in the morning. You should consider yourself lucky.” She ends this sentence with a light kiss on his neck.