Stick to Your Story
Stick to Your Story
10:52 PM
Forever, and then all at once, the weight is gone and you gasp for breath.
“Oh shit,” someone says.
You feel a tugging at the back of your shirt. A hand grips your shoulder, another wedges beneath your chest, rolling you onto your back.
“Oh shit,” someone says again.
You open your eyes to find two figures hovering over you. It’s Sal and Rigo.
“Fuck,” says Rigo, bending closer.
Sal turns away and calls over his shoulder, “He’s alive!”
Suddenly, the mustached cop is on you, his hands pressing against the sides of your neck, moving over your chest. You flinch, try to push him away.
“It’s okay,” he says, holding up the palms of his blood covered hands. “Are you hurt?” he asks, and you realize it isn’t him, it isn’t Ballard.
“I…” Besides a throbbing pain in your temple, “No, I, I don’t … think so.”
“Can you stand?”
You nod, letting Sal and Rigo help you to your feet.
Sal and Rigo?
“Fuck, dude,” says Rigo, still gripping your arm.
“Lil’ Boot!” Joanne appears from somewhere behind the cop, then freezes in place, her terrified gaze fixed on your chest. “Oh God, Matthew…”
You look down to find the front of your shirt soaked in red. That’s when you see Principal Granger’s body on the ground near your feet, and not far from him, another, this one in uniform.
“Ruth!” You pull away from the boxers, stumble toward the Camaro, and yank open the door.
She is still huddled inside with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands covering her ears. “Please, please, please,” she repeats softly to herself as she rocks forward, thumping her head against the back of the seat.
“Ruth, it’s me, it’s Matthew.”
Without opening her eyes, she lets you take her by the wrists and pull her from the car.
The cop moves past you to look into the back seat.
There is a sharp intake of breath and then you hear him mutter, “God damn it to hell.”
Your arm around her shoulder, you guide Ruth away from the car, away from the bodies inside, away from the one in the chair, the two on the floor, all of them, until you are out of the shed with the soft dirt of the yard beneath your feet.
“Ruthie,” Joanne says, taking her from you. “It’s okay, honey. It’s me. It’s Joanne. I’m here now, baby. I came back for you.”
Ruth finally opens her eyes and turns, just once, to look back at the shed. Then, her shoulders trembling, she crumples into Joanne’s embrace and starts to cry.
In the distance, the sirens begin.
Sometime later, you find yourself in the back of an ambulance sitting on the padded side-bench next to Joanne and Ruth. You are on the end, nearest the open doors, staring out, eyes unfocused, at the pulsing lights of the other emergency vehicles now crowding the front of Timo’s property. One of the medics gave each of you a thin blue blanket, and you pull the edges of yours more snuggly about your shoulders to fend off the night chill in the air. You are thinking about the cop who tried to kill you and the one who showed up, impossibly, just in time to save you, and of that other Friday night six months ago when another officer had come knocking on your door.
It was late. You were the only one still up, trying to watch music videos on the television in the living room with the volume so low you could hardly hear it. “Are your parents home?” he had asked. “May I speak with them?” He was wearing the same black uniform, only this one had on a hat, flat, with a shiny black visor, which he promptly removed and tucked beneath his arm before entering your house. Just like in the movies. So that as you listened from the darkened hallway, somehow, you knew, before he asked your mother to please sit down, knew what he was about to say.
“And then what did you do?”
You turn to face Ruth, only she isn’t talking to you.
“I climbed out the window,” answers Joanne.
“The window in the bathroom?” asks Ruth. “But that’s—”
“Small, I know, I almost got stuck, but Sal and Rigo helped me.”
“Sal and Rigo?”
“Yeah, they were parked on the other side. They followed us.”
“To Foster Freeze, why?”
“The truck,” you say. “They recognized Timo’s truck.”
Joanne nods. “They followed us to the park, but when they saw that cop put us in his car, they figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” asks Ruth.
“You know.” Joanne leans past Ruth to meet your gaze. “What happened to Timo.”
“But I thought we…” Ruth turns toward the empty seats in the front cab of the ambulance and then back to you. “You know, found it, the truck.”
“Yes, yes,” says Joanne, placing a reassuring hand on Ruth’s knee. “And that’s what I told them, and that’s when they told me they found Timo dead in some warehouse. They said the cop, Ballard, was dirty, that he must have killed Timo and now he was going to kill us.”
Ruth turns to gaze out the back of the ambulance toward the shed, which is mostly blocked from view now by a large white, windowless van. “But how do they know all this?”
Joanne shrugs. “I don’t know. How did they even know Timo? I mean, the one…” She lowers her voice. “Rigo? He almost started crying just talking about him.”
“Did they tell you that they—” Ruth starts to ask, then whispers, “burned the place down?”
“No,” says Joanne. “That’s their story to tell, not ours.”
Ruth seems thoughtful, then nods.
“When we figured out you were heading back here,” says Joanne. “We stopped at the Circle-K and called Officer Paloma over there.” She gestures with her chin in the direction of the shed. “And the rest is history.”
“You mean 911,” says Ruth.
“No.” Joanne shakes her head. “The smart one, Sal, he called Paloma’s house. Swear to God, he had his number. The wife answered. Apparently, they know him from their boxing club. He volunteer coaches over there after school or something.”
“Damn,” Ruth says. “Who would have thought?”
“I know, right?” Joanne takes a deep breath, slowly exhales. “Small fucking world.”
You wonder, could it have been him that night, Officer Paloma, in your living room with the bad news? Would he be the one knocking on Tony’s door later? And Bobby’s? Would he have to reach out, grip Tony’s father by the elbow, steady him on his feet while Tony’s mother whispers, “Please no, God, please,” over and over into the cupped palms of her trembling hands? And how is it decided, who gets to go, the first on the scene, the last?
“Is that him?” asks Ruth.
An officer has rounded the back of the white van and is walking toward you.
“Yes,” you say.
“Remember,” whispers Joanne. “No matter what. Stick to our story.”
Ruth reaches over, finds your hand, and doesn’t let go.
To be continued…
This story is a work in progress — I’m writing it as fast as I can! More episodes in this thread coming soon. While you are waiting, feel free to return to the beginning: if you make different choices you will get a different story.
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THE MISADVENTURES OF MATTHEW VAN DER BOOT is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental … no matter how many times you ask.