A Hand of Spades

Chapter 4. Click

Half a mile from the trailer park is a small hardware store. It used to be run by an older couple, but they moved to Florida a few years back. It must have been around the same time Hoyt was trying to squeeze money out of people. I guess they had enough to split town altogether. 

I scrounge together the money I have left and drive there. I've wrapped my bad arm clumsily with a strip of fabric I tore from my pillowcase. The pain is agonizing, clenching my jaw is the only way to steady my breathing. Every now and then the edges of my vision blur slightly. I shake my head to keep myself awake and focused on the road.

When I pull up, the place looks dark. For a moment I'm afraid they've already closed for the night, but I try the front door and am relieved to find it open. An older man behind the counter acknowledges my presence with a hesitant, "evening, miss." I feel his uncertain gaze trail me through the aisles.

I had a brief look in the bathroom mirror before I left, confirming what I already suspected. My lip is split, my eye swollen and a bruise already darkening beneath the socket. I'm certain if this man behind the counter asks about any of my injuries I'll have a meltdown, so I opt to move quickly. I grab a hammer off the shelf. We used to have one in our toolbox beneath the sink, but we must have loaned it away.

I don't glance up at the man behind the counter. I just pass him a crumpled bill, watching his tattooed hands reach out to grasp it gently. Then I duck back out to where I've left the Corolla idling, tucking my now mostly empty wallet into the pocket of my shorts.

My plan is exactly what you'd expect from someone who hasn't slept in over 24 hours; it's fucking idiotic. I park the Corolla a quarter mile from Lucky Motors, trying to conceal it slightly in the sparse shrubs. It's not likely that anyone will be driving down one of these side roads so late, but I don't want any cameras the Spades might have to catch my getaway car.

I debate calling Blister. She has an old cell phone in case of emergencies. Would she answer? It's late. What would I say?

Hey kiddo, I love you.

She'd panic. She would know something's up. If things go haywire, maybe Val can take her in. Blister knows to go there if something happens to me. We made that plan together after the trailer windows were smashed in.

I take my phone in case I need to send her one final message; a warning. I tell myself I won't need it.

My vision darkens slightly as I walk along the side of the road. My steps are uneven, kicking dust up in my wake. With a hammer in one hand, face bloodied, and the other arm bandaged up, I probably look like I'm the ghost of a scorned woman haunting the back road.

My pulse quickens as Lucky Motors comes into view. This is my last chance to back out. I could get back in the Corolla, pick up Blister from her friend's place, and we could just go. 

What if Hoyt follows? I steel myself, and continue towards the garage until I come face to face with the chain link fence.

I sling my jean jacket over my good shoulder and stare up at the barbed wire. In my vision, slightly hazy from pain and exhaustion, the little spikes look like birds. I tuck the hammer into my shorts.

Climbing the fence one-handed was an easier picture in my mind. Val always had me scale the ladder to change lights at the diner, insisting her back was no good, but even when I had a bulb in my hand, I could still lean on the ladder with that arm if I needed to. My left arm is useless. If I put any weight on it, I see stars. I toss my jacket, watching it land over the three strips of spiked wire. It won't protect me much, but hopefully it'll do enough.

The sleeves of the jacket, dangling, seem to dance slightly on the breeze like a flag.

Strangely, I think of when I bought it. Years ago now; before Hoyt the Stella. It had been a mild spring in Texas, and I'd worn through the elbows of a threadbare flannel. Val had harped at me about catching a cold until I went down to the thrift store and picked up the oversized denim jacket in the men's section. There was a crumbled up gas station receipt in the pocket. I'd hardly gone a day without wearing it since, and it's held up, the denim stiff and seemingly untearable. I probably won't be able to get it back now. The loss feels minimal under the weight of everything else.

I hesitate only a second longer before I begin my clumsy ascent of the fence. It rattles and trembles with my every movement. I'm about eight feet up before I encounter my jacket. I lean against the denim, trying to support enough of my weight to let go with my good hand. I reach around to grasp the top of the barbed wire and haul myself carefully over. As I sling my second leg over the wire, my whole body begins to shake from exertion. I wobble, and then let go.

I feel something tear through the skin of my thigh on the way down, and land in a heap on the pavement, pain rattling through my ankles and the now-skinned palm of my good hand. Taking a pleading breath, I glance down at the fresh gash on my leg. I must have left a chunk of my skin on some barbed wire. Already a stream of blood has begun trickling down. It looks deep, but the adrenaline keeps me from feeling it. I scramble to my feet, stumbling for the back door.

The hammer thankfully survived the climb. I pull it out with my good arm and slam it down on the doorknob, the contact reverberating through my bones. With the third smack, the doorknob comes away and lands with a satisfying clunk against the pavement.

I'm in.

The familiar smell of motor oil hits me along with a wave of nausea. As my eyes adjust to the empty garage, a pit of nerves forms in my stomach. It's eerily quiet, strangely surreal. 

I'm almost there. I've almost done it. 

I pad silently over to the desk where the white-haired man led me hours earlier and kneel in front of the safe.

With trembling fingers I punch in the same code I noted down. The lock disengages with a click that seems to echo through the whole garage.

I slide the pistol out, surprised by the weight of it in my palm; the heaviness of an object that can kill. A singular image slides icily into my mind of pointing it between Hoyt's panicked eyes, my finger on the trigger.

"Who the fuck are you?"

I wheel, pointing the barrel in the direction of the male voice. He must have come from inside. He's a tall, imposing figure, partially concealed in the shadows of the dark garage.

"Don't come any closer." My voice doesn't shake, but the gun rattles in my hands.

I watch the figure cock his head ever-so-slightly. Then, in the painful silence, he takes a slow step towards me.

I aim the gun at the floor and pull the trigger. 

Click. 

Nothing happens. My stomach plummets. The gun's not loaded.

Fuck.

The man chuckles.

I drop the gun and bolt for the back door. He moves quickly, rough hand closing around my injured shoulder. He pulls me backwards and my body screams in protest. I yelp, blinded by blinding pain, and my legs buckle. I feel the cool concrete against my face, and then the world dissolves into black.

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