The Devil's Copper Jamie Crothall (i like reading books TXT) 📖

ignition.  I didn’t start the car yet though.  I made it clear that I was waiting.

“Then talk fast.”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you, especially like this,” he insisted.

“Try me.”

Seven men had now amassed.

“Fuck…okay…I can travel through time, okay?”

“You’re not one of Jack’s actors, and we both know it.”

“No, I mean I can see forward in time!  Where do you think he got the idea from?  Can we go now please?”

“Oh my god, you are a drug addict.  I knew it.”

“…one…two…oh shit, he’s got a shotgun, can we go now please??”

On the up-side it was a pleasant experience to see Walter so freaked out and not at all smug.  On the down-side, moments after he said that an eighth man emerged and he was in fact wielding a shotgun.  If I had remained rational, I could have told myself their beef was not with me, and I was safe.  But upon seeing another gun, I realized it was time to get the hell away and re-assess the situation.  I stifled a scream, started the car and kicked up a hail of gravel as I tore out of the parking lot.

“You’re not helping your profile in this closed-minded community!” Walter shouted out the window as we drove away.

It wasn’t until we made our way out of the neighbourhood, and were sure we weren’t being followed, that he stopped constantly looking around, and seemed somewhat relaxed.

I pulled into the Food Basics parking lot.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

I came to a full stop along the side of the building.  “Get out.”

“What?”

“I’m done with you.  Get out.”

“…one…two…”  He sighed.  “Okay, fine.”

He hardly put up much of a fight, which was a relief.  He got out of the car and simply stood there, waiting for me to drive away.  I’m not sure if he was testing to see how serious I was, but I wasn’t playing games.  It was getting late, and I had to determine how I was going to explain the missed pages at work the next day.  If I was going to work at all.

FIVE

I hit the snooze button several times as I struggled to decide what to do with my Monday morning.  I slept as well as one could when they knew they were being followed, and didn’t have a secure lock on their front door.  My only comfort was if they wanted me dead, they’d have killed me when they took Jack.  I almost had a sense of resignation to whatever could happen when I went to bed.  Not that I wanted to be killed in my sleep, but I was still disappointed as ever to hear my alarm go off.

I did the bare minimum to get dressed and made my way into the Valley to the industrial park where my job was located.  The name “JOEY” adorned every vehicle, including the large 800 gallon tank trucks - blue letters on a plain white background.  It was named after the owner, my boss, Joe Herbert Linden, proud owner of the region’s most recognizable septic pumping and hauling company.  We also rented portable toilets, which led them to acquire the nickname of “Joey’s”, something my employer seemed quite proud of.  Not my measure of success, but he seemed content with his status in the community.  He was the type of boss you both admired and hated.  Usually at the same time.  He was shrewd one moment, and far too trusting the next.  He had a habit of hiring part-time office staff from a youth employment service.  He stated he was helping young people get a good start in life.  In truth, he did it for the cheap labour.  It was a coincidence we no longer needed these teenaged workers the moment their subsidy program ran out.  But a few weeks later, we were hiring another.  Still, I’d rather him hire through an agency than on his own judgement.  The last time he hired additional office staff, it was someone he met on the bus.  He offered the kid a job, and the keys to one of the service vehicles, and told him to be in on Monday.  That Monday, the kid never showed up, but the service vehicle was gone.  It showed up a week later in Chelmsford.  The most infuriating part was that he never trusted me with a service vehicle.  And I had been there five years.

I entered the office and said hello to Pat, the kid-of-the-week.  He was an 18 year old high school graduate who wouldn’t afford to go to college, and was attempting to get a break in a local job market so parched even minimum-wage employers could demand college degrees and unreasonable amounts of previous experience, just to haul two-by-fours in a lumber yard.  I had sympathy for the kid, and rather liked him.  I often hoped that Joey would like him enough to keep him around.

“Are you okay?” asked Pat.

Christ, was it that obvious?

“Didn’t sleep much,” I muttered.  “Is he around?”

Pat only nodded, which meant our mutual employer was within earshot.

“Billie?” a gruff voice called.

The portly and aging master of the (out)house emerged from his office.  He put his fists on his hips to assert his dominance, which might have been intimidating if he didn’t have his tiny little white bichon frise in his half-zipped jacket.  Seriously, he loved that dog more than his own children.  And he took it everywhere.

“Good morning Joey,” I greeted, putting on my game-face.

“Twelve missed emergency calls!” he stated.  “That’s twelve people who may never call us again.”

“I’m sorry.  My pager stopped working.  I should have been suspicious when it stopped going off, but I…”

“Here,” he said, taking his own pager off his belt and putting it in my hand.  “Have the answering service call this one from