1st Chapter of Lost Time LOST TIME DW BROWN FICTION THRILLER SUSPENSE MYSTERY

Transcription

1 1st Chapter of Lost Time LOST TIME DW BROWN FICTION THRILLER SUSPENSE MYSTERY

2 Chapter 1. I d been driving for about five hours headed for upstate New York, when realization set in that I d somehow missed my planned exit for the Wal-Mart Supercenter. Glancing down at the time on the stereo of my old truck, I also noticed that ninety minutes had elapsed. Having been on a couple of smaller trips before where I d somehow gotten lost in my thoughts and lost some time, this was no huge surprise, but ninety minutes unaccounted for definitely was a big deal. Pulling off to the side of the interstate, I struggled to recall what happened to those ninety minutes. How could I have driven that long of a distance, and not remember anything about it? What if I hit another car, or worse yet, ran over someone? Realizing my imagination was getting away from me, I decided to put it aside for now, and concentrate on the task at hand: food and gas. Seeing the I-81 marker told me that I was still going in the right direction, but I desperately needed to pick up some snacks for the last three hours of my trip and gas up, again. If my old Chevy pickup truck got better gas mileage than twelve miles to the gallon, my wallet wouldn t be taking such a big hit for the unexpected trip. I took the next exit and doubled back along I-81 South, knowing I d have to drive an additional twenty minutes out of my way, just to get back to the Wal-Mart exit. But at this point my options were pretty much limited. The trip from my small hometown of Pikeville, Kentucky to Watertown, New York was unexpected to say the least. After graduating from Mullins High School about four years ago, I took a dead end job working in the coal mines for Southeast Coal Company. The job paid well, but all around me people were calling in sick for knee and back injuries, and I d already been involved in over three different cave-ins in my short time there. I knew right away there was no longevity in the field. After putting in a long day at work, I opened the mailbox to a letter from the executor of my grandfather s estate. The letter stated that the old man passed and the reading of his will was in two months; it also stated that I stood to inherit quite a substantial amount of the departed s estate. My hopes soared at the thought of finding something a little less taxing on the body, and never having to work again would definitely fit the bill. Since the letter said nothing about how much might be coming my way, my thoughts ranged from new homes to cars, to thousands of dollars in the bank. Hey, if you re going to dream, dream big, right? From what I d overheard from my mom, my grandfather had spent thirty years in the military, retired from that job and spent another twenty-five years working on the same military base as a civilian, and retired from there also. Why the man would leave anything to me was a mystery, because I hadn t seen him in forever. My mom had written him out of our lives when I was eight years old. According to my mom, Rose, my grandfather, William Johnson, was a rather eccentric (it took me years to figure out what that word actually meant) old man, who only cared about himself and his money.

3 Mom told me that my grandmother, June, died about fifteen years ago from the flu, cutting off the only communication we had with my grandparent s. From what I gleaned from their phone conversations, June was the only reason my mom and my grandfather even had a relationship in the first place; when she passed, so did any bond between them. I often wondered what transpired between them to cause such a riff in their relationship. After driving the extra distance with a less than enthusiastic disposition, I finally saw the big blue building off to my right and headed that way. I was behind on time, and the gas gauge told me that I d drifted way beyond that comfortable zone where you could still squeeze out a few extra miles. I m not sure what s left in the tank after the fumes expire, but it was obvious that I was somewhere in that realm. After gathering up my supplies and purchasing a fifty dollars gas card, I headed out to give my thirsty old truck a drink of the cheap stuff. I know some people swear by the higher octane fuel, but I d watched my mom put in the 87 octane stuff for the past thirteen years (as far back as I could remember), and it worked just fine. As I leaned against my old pickup truck, I noticed a small gym bag of sorts in my back seat. I wasn t sure where it came from, but I knew it wasn t there when I walked into the store. I wracked my brain trying to figure out how it could ve gotten there. Had someone dropped it off while I was inside? Did someone mistakenly think they were putting it inside of their vehicle, and place it in mine, instead? I looked around the parking lot, but failed to see any other vehicles that looked like mine. The previous owner of my old Chevy pickup had broken a key off inside the driver s side door, so I hadn t been able to lock them for the four years I d owned the thing. That would explain how someone was able to get the bag inside my truck in the first place. Once the pumps clicked off, my curiosity got the better of me, so I opened the third door on the passenger side of my old truck, and hopped into the backseat. With a less than confident hand, I grabbed the zipper, pulled it back and peered inside. What the? Inside the bag was a long knife which appeared to be covered in blood, a pair of rubber gloves, and over five thousand dollars, all in fifty dollar bills. The sight of all of the blood covering everything caused me to spill out onto the ground, and I feared the worst. The questions immediately assaulted my brain. Where did the bag come from? What was it doing in the back of my truck? Whose blood was all over everything? Feeling a little silly, as everyone else fueling up alongside me turned to look in my direction, I decided it best to get back into my vehicle and make a hasty retreat. As I turned back onto the I-81N ramp, the mystery overwhelmed my brain. I kept sneaking a peek into the rearview mirror, hoping the bag would magically disappear, or its real owner would appear. Either way, the thing consumed my thoughts.

4 The thing that scared me the most was, Did that knife and those gloves belong to me? Had I done something so terrible during those ninety minutes I couldn t account for, and my conscience blocked it? Paranoia began to set in for the rest of my trip. I started breaking out in cold sweats, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching me. My eyes searched all of my mirrors repeatedly, to verify that I wasn t being followed, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. After battling with myself for the two hours, I finally got up the nerve to stop at the next rest stop. Navigating the old truck into a secluded space on the backside of the joint, I sat with my head leaning against the steering wheel, trying to decide my next move. My heart jumped into double time as I opened that side door, and peered in at that bag of death. That was the name that my brain had already given it, after seeing all of the blood and the obvious evidence. Seated next to the bag again, making sure no part of my body actually came in contact with it, I reached for the zipper flap. My hand was shaking like a cat thrown into a tub of cold water. Grasping the end, I pulled it open, exposing the bloody contents. I m not sure why I did what I did next, but things hadn t exactly been going my way lately, and I thought the money might be the answer to turn things around for me. With the sleeve of my shirt covering my hand (for some reason I was already thinking like a guilty person, not wanting my prints to be found on the bag), I reached in, took out the money, and dumped it into my lap. With everything but the cash itself stuffed back into the duffle bag, I drove to the closest exit and headed out into the country, in search of a place to discard it all. My conscience warred with me for the entire fifteen minute ride, but in the end, the money won out. After all, I couldn t have caused that mess, because I d been driving for the past five hours, right? I eventually talked myself into believing the evidence inside my truck had nothing to do with me, and settled the matter inside my head for good: maybe. After siphoning out a small cup of gasoline from my tank, and dousing the bag with it, I set fire to everything. Forty-five minutes later, it all finally burned out. I quickly drug the knife blade over to the wood-line, dug a small hole with my hands and buried it. Meticulously, I took the side of my old tennis shoes and swept away my tracks, retracing the path to my truck. ****************** Satisfied that someone else s sin was covered and five grand richer, I took off. I must ve checked the rearview mirror about ten times just to make sure no one was following me, not content with the fact that I was the only vehicle on the dirt road tonight. It wasn t until the interstate on-ramp that I finally breathed a little easier.

5 For the rest of the trip, I thought about all the ways I d spend my five grand and hopefully many thousands more from my grandfather s will. The bright light coming from the full moon on that late November night, also managed to grab a small portion of my attention. Something about that big light bulb, illuminating my way, always fascinated me. With my window down, the moon appeared to be traveling alongside me. I d always wondered whose face it actually was framed inside of that round ball, and why the people at NASA never took the time to answer such a life altering question. With so many people wondering, you d think some of the billions of dollars spent on space exploration would ve gone towards answering the great mystery. Beep! Beep! The blare of the horn from the car coming directly at me jarred me out of my moon gazing, as I whipped the steering wheel back into my lane just before the newer model Ford Taurus slammed into me. Initially unaware that I d even drifted into the oncoming traffic lane, my weak knees made me painfully aware, once I regained control. It wouldn t have been a problem on normal interstate driving, but the road work had turned the four lane road into two lanes for the last ten miles, and I was distracted by an enticing moon. I m positive that narrowly missing four of the orange barrels blocking off the third and fourth lanes of the interstate, took a year or two off of my overall life span on earth. My over-attentiveness for the remainder of the trip, allowed me to make it into Watertown around ten o clock that night, without further incident. I was thankful that my deceased grandfather included hotel accommodations for anyone having to drive in for the reading, because I didn t want to break into my newfound stash just yet. When I first got the news that hotel accommodations were included, it made me wonder how much money the old man really had. I just wish he would ve sprung for round trip airfare also. Maybe then I wouldn t have found that awful bag and its contents, I thought. If the interior of the Martin Hotel was anything like the exterior, I started wondering if I could milk out a few extra night s on grandpa s dime. The place was entirely covered in a beautiful stone, each of the eight floors were separated by massive square columns, and the soft glow of the blue outdoor lights around the pond provided a romantic ambiance that made me wish things would ve worked out better with Rebecca. My mind drifted back to last month when Rebecca called to tell me that things weren t progressing like she d hoped in our relationship, and she felt it best to part ways. I knew she was just pushing me into a marriage proposal, but I just wasn t ready. Snapping out of my thoughts, I grabbed my overnight bag and made my way to the entrance. I was admiring the glass covering the front, thinking that it alone probably cost a few million, when the heavy, glass double-doors opened automatically, surprising me and beckoning me inside.

6 When the medium built looking middle-aged man walked up to me, dressed in what appeared to be an off color looking suit, I assumed that he worked for the hotel. One of his hands reached for my bag, and the other reached out to shake my hand. Good evening, Mr. Fleming. I would like to welcome you to the Martin Hotel. We ve been expecting you. What? You have? Yes, Mr. McKinley told us you d be arriving before midnight tonight, so we ve been on the lookout. Mr. McKinley? Oh, the executor of grandfather s estate. How did he know that I d be in before midnight? I ve never even met the guy. The way the bellhop quickly changed the subject wasn t lost on me, as he said, Well, we should get you settled into your room for the night, Mr. Fleming. If you ll just follow me, I ll take you there now. Shouldn t I at least check in first? No need. Mr. McKinley already took care of everything. My orders were to ensure you made it to your room, and then carry you to the reading tomorrow morning, at ten sharp. It sounds like everything s already taken care of then. Does the hotel here serve breakfast? I will be dropping breakfast by your room at eight-thirty sharp. If you could, please check the menu card in your room for the items that you want to eat, and leave it in the box mounted on the outside of your door. I ll make sure the chef gets your request. If you thought my hopes of receiving some big money were high before the bellhop mentioned room service, I have to tell you, after hearing that, I began envisioning myself having tea with Warren Buffett.