On the Run by M Zeigler (short story to read TXT) 📖

to separate them, it’s easier to take them down if they’re in the same place at the same time and then form a double cross. I have another idea to play around with, we forgot to stop by the bank yesterday.” I say pointing to where Nevada City would be on the map to bring Barrette over to the location I’m thinking of.

“We were supposed to stop at the bank, and forgot. You asked if it was a good idea or not, you know that they can follow a credit card trail straight to our location, it would be even easier with Michael on the team he has a lot of knowledge in the industry. That’s the in, we can control the situation to an extent if we remain on the run.” I explain, once I’ve presented this idea, Barrette shows understanding and is following my same train of thought. Except we need to map out the entirety of our next hiding location, how we are getting there, how long will we stay there, that sort of thing.

“What else needs to be done in the mean time? We could leave immediately, I mean any other location circled on your grandfather’s map is hours and hours away from here, most of the locations are even days away.” Barrette says getting slightly excited that we have finally made a breakthrough on our big plan to catch Devon.

Just as I open my mouth to reply a very alarming ring tone sounds off from Barrette’s cell phone. “It’s Marcus.” Barrette says sounding amused by my little yelp that was emitted the moment the alarm went off.

I watch Barrette carefully as he walks across the room, I notice that his shoulder is very stiff and he’s trying not to move his hand at all, which isn’t a good idea. If he doesn’t move his arm or his hand then the limb will seize up and it won’t be easy to get motion back to his arm. Then again he should not have carried me all the way back to the cabin, that entire moment was selfish on my part. He’s injured and he felt the need to carry my crazy butt back home.

“Slow down, what is going on?” Barrette vocalizes alerting me to the fact he’s already answered the phone, his panicked response to Marcus temporarily changes my worry over his arm to worry over whatever Marcus is saying. After a long time of listening to Marcus’s voice on the other end of the line Barrette looks at me alarmed, the expression quickly fades to grief.

I know that look all too well, that look is a grieving one, this man has lost so many people already, now my wretched family has taken someone else.

 “We are in hiding right now, but we’re coming back. Get every bit of evidence you can and hold it for us, we’ll be back in Christianson as soon as we can get to an airport. Inform the local sheriffs know what is going on so they don’t go after Bonnie.” Barrette says, his voice holds a new determination in it, one that says you’ve officially messed with the wrong man, upon hearing this pitch I hear my grandmother’s words echoing in my head. Bonnie, don’t waste your time on Clyde Barrow. Why those words come to mind now, I have no idea, but I feel as if I’m about to find out.

Barrette hangs up and squeezes the phone with the corner lightly pressed to his forehead, every muscle in his body is tense; the hurt contorting his face right now brings guilt to my heart. I feel guilty because I realize that maybe if we had of stayed at the fair like Barrette asked to, then maybe whoever this person is would be alive right now.

 In a few short steps I cross the room to stand in front of Barrette, I reach up to him placing my hand on the crook of his neck. I’m trying to be comforting towards him right now which he seems appreciative over, the problem is, I don’t know if I’m doing this right. I suck at comforting people mostly because no one has ever done this for me!

 “Barrette, who is it?” I whisper, I feel if I speak louder that I might shatter this already delicate situation and we will lose the entire war. It’s a bit nutty to think that way, I know that no amount of noise or quiet will sway this now entirely out of control situation.

Barrette takes a shaky breath before speaking in an equally hushed voice, but his tone has deepened showing the pain and anger he’s feeling right now. Any other woman would be terrified of him right now, but I am not, I know that no matter how angry he becomes he will never hit me or any other woman.

“After we left, everyone on my team went to my mother’s house in Georgia; they’ve been there this whole time thinking it was safe. Chelsea and my best friend Heather went for a walk last night and…three female hit men attacked her and Heather, and poor Chelsea. She didn’t make it, she was shot to death last night and found early this morning placed on the hood of the  my car. The local sheriff’s are trying to do some investigating but as of right now they don’t have any news to report.” Barrette rasps out trying to hold back the pain he is feeling, I can’t understand his attachment to Chelsea but I know that pained look in his eyes all too well.

With this look, all light fades away, your eyes just glaze over, it’s almost the same look as death, but it’s different because you are still breathing, your heart still beats. There’s a stinging pain that burns throughout your entire body, breathlessness washes over you, and for a split second in time after the call; you wish that it was you in that persons spot. Or maybe that is just how it is for people like me, we feel un- worthy of being alive so we want to take the place of the ones like Chelsea who never deserved an ending like this.

“I’m sorry.” I say quietly to Barrette hoping my tone shows that I am here if he needs me, my eyes close as I move as close to him as I can slinking my arms around his neck holding tight trying to silently tell him everything will be okay. I half expect him to push me away and blame this on me, he would be right to do so. After all, the idea to run away was mine, he wanted to stay and wait for the police to show up.

 Contrary to my expectations Barrette’s arms wrap around me, both of us just stand here in complete silence wishing this whole thing would be over already.

My eyes slide open looking for some sign that my grandfather knows what to do right now, because at this point I definitely do not know what to do anymore.

Scanning around I focus on the wall next to the partial bathroom, hanging at an odd angle from the wall is a massive picture that is really out of place here in the cabin. The portrait shows a sunny beach with two empty lawn chairs facing the waves, the frame is a golden color or would be if not for the fifty pounds of dust coating it. The most peculiar detail about this photo is the bracelet that sets perfectly on the small table between the two chairs, a single charm hangs from it, the charm reads, Trust. The writing is an elegant cursive scrawl, the details in the writing even show what would be glints of sunlight if this were a photo and not a painting.

There are two reasons this picture is out of place, one, my grandfather hated the beach, and two, we are hours and hours away from the beach, so why would there be a photo of such a setting in a place like this.

When Barrette is ready to, he releases me and I look up at him giving him one last reassuring look before walking over to the painting and lifting it off the wall. My attention falls on the safe that is perfectly fitted into the wall. The whole set up is an obvious hiding place, but would be next to impossible to get into even if some passerby had discovered this cabin. It’s a vintage safe that has a dial on it, unless you happen to have electricity for a metal grinder or knowledge on opening antique safes, you wouldn’t be able to get this iron box to open.

 “Why don’t you start loading the car?” I suggest gently to Barrette who takes the slight hint to get out while I open the safe. I don’t care if he knows the combination, I just figure he needs a better distraction, and maybe some fresh air.

When I hear the almost silent click of the front door closing alerting me that Barrette has left the room I look at the picture and then to the safe, Trust. Knowing my grandfather it doesn’t take more than a few second to figure out that the word is actually a code.

If you knew my grandfather you would know he was a simpleton, because, as he taught my dad, people today think elaborate, they can’t think simple.  I reach over to the phone Barrette left on the bed and pull up the dial pad; looking at the numbers I see that the code is eight, seven, eight, seven, eight. I quickly dial the numbers into the safe and then pull on the lever, the door cracks open and I stare inside looking at the items inside.

There is a file folder with a letter folded in half set on top like a pyramid, both items look well preserved, but as everything else is that belonged to my grandfather both items are stained in cigarette smoke. The file even has a ring around it that looks like watered down bourbon, or in my grandfather case it would be bourbon and seven.

I carefully remove both items from the safe being extraordinarily careful with both, even though all items are perfectly preserved I realize that this is the last words my grandfather will pass onto me and therefore I don’t want to damage them in any way.

A deep breath has me deciding to read the letter first, it’s written in my grandfather’s hand writing a barely legible chicken scratch.

Bonnie,

It’s been two years since your mother ran off with you; I imagine that while your reading this you are still incredibly angry with her.  I’m sure you’ve long since returned to Jack and have been informed of my passing. In your eyes it’s your mother’s fault I’m gone, you would rather blame everything on her than blame me for smoking from such a young age and drinking my life away. This topic is something that I have to discuss with you, I know if no one tells you now, you’re going to make my mistakes and continue hating your mother forever. These kinds of hateful feelings will only weigh you down kiddo.

I found out last night that I have cancer; the doctors say that there is nothing that can be done for me because the disease has advanced so far. They also have said repeatedly that this was brought on by my sixty plus years of smoking and drinking the way you do now.

With that said; if I know you, and I do, you are upset that you never had the chance to know your family better. You’re going to hate your mother, wish her dead for what she has done. Since I can’t be there to teach you everything you’re going to need to know and your dad is to dense to learn these life lessons I figure I may as well teach them to