Stolen Me by K. Michael Washington (read with me .TXT) 📕

I woke up alone and unknown in that over decorated hotel room and it felt great, but it didn’t last. I turn on the TV and the first thing I hear is my name. I’m being sought for questioning. Someone had vandalized a statue in the cemetery. They referred to me as the convicted felon widower of the woman who donated the statue. Then they mentioned that I had a sledgehammer when I was arrested fifteen years ago in that very same spot. The prospect of having my parole violated over me breaking something I paid for made me smile. Since I never planned on seeing a parole officer or ever having anything to do with the criminal justice system ever again, my fame’s resurgence didn’t change a thing. I still have to find my son, and Carl Thornton was the best place to start looking.

Even with rouge vegetation taking over the lawn and fallen limbs scattering the property, the Thornton estate still gave me that familiar tingle that I get when a place is right for the picking. It was obvious that Carl had become unable to care for his land. The trees had grown over the house and it sat in a dreary shade even in mid afternoon. No vehicles sat outside, but the front door was open. I went in. Margaret was standing in her kitchen, feebly slicing carrots into a bowl. I watched her for a few moments from just outside the kitchen, then as if she could feel my presence she turned around. I ducked back around the corner just before she saw me. Savoring the moment that we’d come eye to eye, I went to see if anyone else was home. In her later years, Margaret had turned her house into a museum of small town Iowa. She displayed pictures of town events and news clippings, like high school basketball championship or a new restaurant opening, followed by the subsequent closing. I made my way around, and each room yielded another history lesson on a place I once called home and a people who once could have become family. In all of it though, not a shred of evidence that Mary, my son, or curiously enough, Judy ever existed was amongst the memorabilia. When I made it to their bedroom I knew then that not even Carl would be interrupting my visit. Leaned against the wall, in the corner closest to his side of the bed, was Carl’s shotgun. In the same place it sat all those years ago, the once jet-black metal was now fading. He had cleaned it religiously, always a thin coat of oil, like a soldier. This time I took it. Even though a little rust had attacked it I pumped the wooden slide easily, depositing a twelve-gauge slug in the chamber. Unlike Carl, the shotgun still had life in it. Margaret was too old to beat an answer out of, plus I needed answers quick. I had been waiting so long to kill them that time beat me to Carl. I was very anxious. She was sitting at the kitchen table facing the doorway. When she saw me coming towards her with the shotgun she didn’t even flinch. We stared at each other in silence. Looking into her eyes was like looking into my wife’s eyes, only after the accident, while she lay dead against my shoulder. The thought almost made me pull the trigger. A pot on the stove behind her started to boil heavily as if our tension was heating the room. I sat across from her and lay the shotgun on the table with my finger on the trigger and the barrel at her chest. I spoke first. Wanting the conversation to be calm and short I kept it simple.

“I want to know where my son is.”

Her voice was softened by humility. “I told Carl you’d be here one day.”

Her hate sliced through the humility.

“I told him, and I told him!”

The louder her voice the shriller it became. She was almost shouting.

“I’ve been ready for you! You’re an evil man Freeman Braddock! I didn’t know that when Carl denied you entry into our family, but I know now. I know because Carl was an evil man too. He had even killed men before, only niggers, but he enjoyed it. Before I saw you coming down the hall with that shotgun, I thought I was imagining Carl’s smell, but it was you. Sin’s funk is spilling from your pores. God will…”

I molested the trigger. “Skip the holier than now speech, where’s my son?”

Laughing at first, she gave me another reason.

“After they put you in prison, they brought your boy here.” She snapped back at me. “Carl rejected the idea of raising a mixed boy! Claimed the boy was no kin to him. Judy took your boy, so Carl disowned her too, just like he did my Mary. Loosing my husband was always worse than loosing my children. I knew better than to bend my tongue against Carl Thornton. You’ll never find him. Judy moved and changed her name. They wanted to hide the boy from you, because of what you are.”

“What am I?”

She grew angry from the memory. “You’re just like Carl! No conscience on the both of ya! She stood up from the table slamming her old wrinkled fist down in disgust. “I’m ready to face my sins boy, are you?!”

“No not yet.” I told her. Then I obliged her. The first shot threw her and her chair against the stove. From the waist I chambered another round and fired. It spun her old body around and she lay across the range, then hair first she started to burn.

Margaret Thornton must have been too old to care about. They assumed she died in the fire. Again, average mid western police work not only failed to solve the crime, but to detect it entirely. Judy was next and there wouldn’t be any type of warning. I searched for her relentlessly, but nothing about her after the adoption was anywhere to be found. Saint Louis was the final stop in the search for my son. I knew exactly where Judy once lived. I even found people who remembered her, but without some type of government information I would never find him. It was like he was in witness protection. I also knew that without living as myself, he would never find me. I came to terms with this. Now I had to try and live. So I went looking for work.

SON

Now when it comes to driving, Nicky is a professional. He used to race in an amateur circuit, but could never get a serious sponsor because his old man had a bad rep. To make it clear, Nicky was cocky at a hundred thirty with eleven beers in him and one on his lap. A lot of guys claim to do it, but he ditches the cops every time they try to pull him over. Don’t get me wrong, they’ve got him before, but not since I’ve known him.

“Lucky number six!” Knowing it irritated me when people misused clichés, Nicky held out a key with a 6 etched into it. I passed on correcting him and started spending the money in my head. After the first thousand, I remembered how impossible this entire thing was to begin with. Nicky didn’t help by explaining that part of the plan was for some people to get caught.

“Not on purpose, just for the greater good of the others getting away.”

“That’s why the turn around is so huge, he won’t have to pay out!” My worries would bring about no change. Nicky had enough confidence behind the wheel for both of us.

The night finally came. At the time, and dressed as if we where looking for more stereo’s, we made our way to the abandoned barn on foot, as directed. Amber had dropped us off on a main rode around a mile from the rendezvous. She was so worried about being late to meat Cleo that she didn’t even ask what we were doing. She was the type of woman that would enable a serial killer, and then claim not to know shit when the bodies in the back yard start stinking up the neighborhood.

We knew we were there when an engines hum pieced the darkness of the woods. Inside the barn was a one of those luxury busses, it sat idling in the darkness. A dim blue light peeked through a crack at the bottom of the door. Pssshhh, the bus hissed as it opened and Nicky led the way. A man in a black ski mask handed him a sheet of paper and growled for us to have a seat. A heavyset woman, who was dressed for the part and unhappy about it, sat in the driver’s seat. The noxious odor of the black spray paint used on the windows lingered. Half the men on the bus had hoods and glasses on, and those of us who did not, weren’t interested in making friends. Talking to anyone who wasn’t in your car was forbidden and would forfeit your buy in money. Each team whispered quietly huddled over their map. Before everyone was even on board Nicky handed me the map saying he had it down.

The Mississippi River was our destination. The bus started to roll. The masked man who handed out the maps stood up. He looked over the crowd. While all eyes where on him, even with the mask it seemed as if his eyes were only on you. Then he announced the car assignments. As he did, the driver of each car moved forward exchanging his map for another piece of information.

Car 1: 1970 Buick Gran Sport 455 with the optional X. The standard model sold with a reported 360 horses. The engine really packs over 425, the lie was to bypass General Motors restrictions and thwart insurances concerns.

Car 2: 1975 Laguna S-3 Chevrolet Chevelle with the 454 and turbo hydramatic 400 transmission.

Car 3: 1966 Pontiac GTO XS. That means this baby has the triple carburetors and the ram air package. This cars horsepower numbers were also underestimated to bypass mandates.

Car 4: The rarest Boss model ever built. The 1969 Mercury Cougar Boss 429 .

Car 5: 1970 Chevrolet Corvette 454 big block. The 7.4 liter is the most powerful Corvette ever.

Car 6: 1969 Dodge Charger Daytona Limited, sporting a 426 Hemi. Only seventy of these were ever made.

Nicky stepped forward and returned with another sheet of paper that was all about our car. Our new sheets of paper boasted two color photos of our Dodge. Another graphic revealed the cars exact location in the garage and some more information. Worth over three hundred thousand dollars, we would be stealing the same car that carried Bobby Isaac to the 1970 Grand National Championship of NASCAR. Before I could even take it all in, our bus halted and it was time to go. The masked man collected the car information, shook hands, and wished good luck to everyone as they exited the bus. Nicky held us up so that we would exit the bus last.

Nicky shook hands with the mastermind, then introduced us. “This is my partner. Marcus Cutler. Dude gets down.”

I took his out stretched hand and he said. “Thank you and good luck.”

I stood there for a second expecting more, but Nicky tugged at me and we walked off the bus. The masked man was right behind me and I wondered what he was driving. Then I saw it. Even in the pitch black it seemed to shine. Collecting every fragment of moonlight and sending it back brilliantly as it stood sentry to the massive garage.

Car 7: 2003 Mercedes Benz SLR McLaren. With a max speed of 208 m.p.h. and