The Fare

Content warning: hostage situation, off-stage death.

I checked my watch and drained the last of the cold coffee from my mug at 4:30 Friday afternoon when Kevin walked through my office door with nine files and a smug half smile.

           “Bottoms up, Beck. Might as well get some more. Your weekend just ended before it began.” He slapped the files on my desk. My notepad fluttered in protest.

           “What’s this?”

           “The Walko case. Judge wants it prepped with jury instructions. Trial’s Monday. Good luck.” He held two fingers up as he sailed through the door, grabbed his coat off the rack and walked out of chambers.

           I ground my teeth and stared at the case files that were, undoubtedly, in Kevin’s arrogant hands since that morning. He held them on purpose. Ever since I was appointed Judge Morgan’s Chief Administrator, he liked to play God in small ways to try to screw with me. He and I were the last two in the running for the position. He was a sore loser.

           Five minutes before, I was on my way out the door to pick up Ellie and Jack, ending the miserable week I was sure they had with their self-righteous father. Then, I had to decide whether to spend Friday night in my office yet again; whether to call Scott and ask him to keep the kids yet again, further solidifying the foundation of the snide remarks he made during the divorce that I was having an affair with my job at the expense of my kids.

Or I could leave.

I could take it with me, beat the 5:00 p.m. rush through Streetsboro and be home with the kids by dinner time. Sure, the work might suffer. And I was still in my probationary period, which meant if Judge Morgan decided to demote me, Kevin would leer over me at the Halstead County Courthouse forever and ever, amen. I had ten seconds to decide.

I opened the middle drawer of my desk and looked for my lucky quarter. It was the only thing in my mom’s wallet when she died. The hospice nurse told me she was worried about hiding all of the cash she had until the very end--the very end I missed because I was working. I kept the quarter. I wanted to let it decide my Friday night fate, but it wasn’t there.

I scooped the files into my bag and slid my coat on. I glanced at the worn-out path I walked everyday, checking for the coin, as I made my way out of the office. I didn’t remember leaving it in the car. Then again, I left my keys in the refrigerator that morning.

 I was the last one in the parking garage when I unlocked the SUV. Ellie told me her dad said it was a ‘too-big, waste of money’, but he would say that. My salary was almost twice as much as his.

I searched the console. Nothing. I leaned over to look around the passenger’s seat. Nothing. I sighed and backed out.

I flipped the radio on as I sat in slow-moving traffic, crawling through the main state route that cut through Streetsboro. “...February when Nelson Mandela was release...The Berlin Wall... Reunification of East and West Germany has Europe…You know, Chris, with Operation Desert Shield underway, I don’t think there’s any way Saddam Hussein…Local news on the hour. The City of Hudson is recommending a curfew as a predator dubbed 'The Butcher' has not yet been caught. Hudson Chief of Police, Don Richards, said he lures his victims, both women so far, off the road. The first one was found in a ditch on March seventh. The second outran him and offered a composite sketch that...”

I snapped the radio off and laughed at the thought of some low-budget splatter film villain stalking the residents of a money town like Hudson. The Butcher, for God's sakes? What's wrong with these people? I had enough of my own problem weighing me down. I didn't need the world's problems too.

I flipped my headlights as dark settled like ink in water. Traffic picked up. I was beyond the clog of the city. As I sped up to 50, the realization I forgot the transcript of the last hearing for the Walko case T-boned my work-worn thoughts.

“Shit.” I tapped the dome light and reached for my bag of files. My eyes danced between the road and the seat as I tossed papers on the seat and there it was, my lucky quarter, on the floorboard of the passenger’s side.

I sucked in an excited breath, looked up and slammed on my brakes just in time to stop before rear-ending a garbage truck.

My heart pounded. I caught my breath and pulled to the shoulder. I got out and ran around the SUV to retrieve my good luck charm. I clawed through the files and was certain I’d forgotten the transcript.

I picked up the quarter. Heads, I go back. Tails, the kids and I fall asleep on the couch with cheap pizza, watching The Simpsons. With a flick of my thumbnail, my night was decided. Cheap pizza on the couch. I opened the console, dropped the quarter in, thought twice and slipped it into my coat pocket instead.

I closed the door and slid behind the wheel, and pulled away from the shoulder. Within a second, high beams stunned me in my rear-view mirror. The vehicle was a van, so close to me, I could see the outline of the man behind the wheel.

I was already going ten over the speed limit, but I sped up to 60. The van closed the gap immediately.

I glanced at the dashed center lines. “Pass me,” I said out loud.

The lights pierced through the back of my SUV to the front, illuminating the whole cabin. I let off the gas pedal. The van slowed, but remained less than a foot from my bumper. I threw both hands up in the wash of light from the van’s bright lights, knowing the driver saw me. He pulled closer. The road rage roiled, a screaming kettle on the verge of boiling over into fear.

A red light on my dashboard drew my eyes down. The orange needle of the gas gauge hovered on E.

Palms sweating, I gripped the wheel and chewed my lip, trying to think of what to do as I passed the sign welcoming me into the city limits of Hudson, where the people were wealthy, the houses were sparse and I had no idea where anything was, except Scott’s mini mansion (courtesy of my child support).

I wanted to drive to the police station, but I didn’t know where it was and I didn’t know if I’d have enough gas to guess my way there. The only other thing I could do was try to signal another car somehow.

“Why isn't anyone on the road?” I said out loud to no one. Then the thought pierced my consciousness like a boil, festering underneath, refusing to surface until the most inconvenient moment.

I'm in Hudson. The Butcher is following me. The low-budget splatter villain was real and he was behind me.

I sped up to 65 and swerved hard to the right shoulder, hoping he’d pass me. He shadowed me instead.

Ahead in the distance, I saw a pair of headlights approaching. I prayed it was a cop, but when the car closed in, I realized it was a truck. I flashed my lights and honked my horn. He slowed. He thought I was warning him of a parked cruiser looking to write speeding tickets.

I slammed my hand on the wheel. Sweat prickled on my forehead. I wiped it with a slick palm. I glanced back at the van. I checked the road and looked up to the mirror again. The man made a motion to the side of the road with his hand. I stomped the gas pedal harder.

“Please, God let me make it to Scott’s.” The gate. The damn gate.

If the gate at the end of Scott's driveway was locked, I’d have no choice but to pray he’d make it outside in time to unlock it before the man in the van got to me. The SUV would crumple like a tin can if I tried to drive through it. It was made of fortress-grade iron.

I waited until the last second to make a right turn on Randolph Road. I hoped the van would miss the turn.

I looked up.

The lights were gone.

I took a deep breath. I had less than a mile to go.

Then, the lights reappeared in my mirror. I sobbed without realizing it.

Randolph Road was desolate and snaking. There was a tricky curve near Sandy Lake, at the outskirts of Scott’s neighborhood. If the man didn’t know the road, there was a good chance he’d miss the turn and careen down the bank into the water.

I took the turn and swung around it. The rear of the SUV slid and made me think I lost control for a snip. The man was still locked on my bumper.

The gas gauge pinged every five seconds to remind me of my hungry tank. With each tone, I lost another nerve.

I spun in the gravel as I turned left down Scott’s driveway. I held my breath in the seconds it took for my headlights to find the gate.

Please be open.

It was.

I let my hand lay on the horn, blasting the shrill noise as I drove up to the house.

Scott came out the front door, angry. I screamed through the windshield, afraid to open the window, “Get your gun…go…get…your…gun…”

He watched the van pull in and stop against my back bumper. He disappeared inside and returned a second later with his rifle. He aimed at the van.

In my side-view mirror, I saw the van door open. The man stepped out with his hands up.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.” Scott trained the barrel at the man’s chest.

I knew the rifle wasn’t loaded. It never was. I didn’t allow loaded guns in the house with the kids. I watched Scott nod. The anger on his face, which was directed at the man, turned to concern as he looked at me.

“Get out of the car, Beck. Now. Get out.” Scott walked toward me, rifle still aimed at the stranger standing by his open van door.

I slid out of the SUV and immediately turned to face the stranger behind me. I backed up toward Scott.

Scott stepped in front of me.

The wash of adrenaline I'd been running on, dumped. My legs felt weak. “He followed me. I pulled over to…he’s the...I couldn’t get rid of him.” Involuntary and breathless sobs came one after the other.

Scott’s front door opened behind me. Ellie stepped out. “Mommy, what’s–”

“Get back in the house,” Scott and I yelled at the same time. The door closed.

The man shook his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was trying to get you to pull over, but you wouldn’t.”

“What are you talking about?” Scott refused to let up on his aim.

“I saw him get in the back seat when you were pulled over. He’s in your car.”

Scott dropped the barrel an inch, trying to decide whether to believe the man.

“I swear I was only trying to help her.” He looked at Scott, then pointed to the back door of the SUV.

Scott nodded and lowered the gun. He walked up to my SUV. I followed close behind him.

“Becky, open the door and stay behind it,” Scott whispered. He moved to the other side of the door with the man.

I gently lifted the handle on the back door and pulled it open.

Scott looked at the floor behind the driver’s seat and turned immediately to the man.

The man was pointing a gun at Scott’s forehead.

The thud of my heart gagged me. The man smiled at Scott.

“I’m a betting man,” he said, “and I’m betting that rifle isn’t loaded. Nobody keeps a loaded gun in arm’s reach with kids in the house.”

The man kept the gun pointed at Scott as he made his way around the opened back door to me. With his left hand, he pulled a filet knife from his belt. He eased behind me and wrapped his left arm around my neck, settling the knife at my throat.

“She’s coming with me. If you try to stop me, I’ll cut her right now.” He pulled me, both of us walking backwards, to his van.

He aimed the gun at Scott until we got to the sliding door. He shoved me inside. The back was empty. A thick wall of plexi glass separated the front seats from the rear.

He slid the door shut. There was no handle inside, no windows. I watched him get behind the wheel. He turned over his right shoulder to back up and winked at me.

My flight instinct, screaming at me since I felt the stranger’s arm, finally ripped through the veil of shock. Like a reflex, I kicked the door. I screamed. I beat the glass with my fist.

We were back on the S curves of the outskirts of the neighborhood, by the lake, when I stopped the worthless struggle long enough to hear Scott in my SUV behind us.

Fresh worry washed over me when I realized he left the kids alone to follow the van.

It didn’t last long.

There was no more roar of another engine behind us by the time we reached the main road.

The SUV ran out of gas.

I squeezed the quarter in my coat pocket. And I prayed.

#

"Who found her?" Officer Kent was tall, thin, young. He was still in awe of what one human could do to another. Detective Reed guessed it wouldn't be more than a few years before he'd start to get haggard like the rest of them.

"A jogger. She was reported missing last night from Hudson." Reed rubbed a hand over his worry-worn face.

He stared at the woman in ditch, the shell of a person who wasn't anymore--a smudge of color in wet-bone March drizzle--like the glowing end of a match that hissed out when it was dropped in a glass of water.

“Who did it, boss?”

“It’s The Butcher for sure. I don’t get the coin, though.” He looked at Kent and squinted. “Just one.”

Kent shrugged. "So?"

“It’s an old custom to put a coin on each eye of the dead person. As payment,” he made quote gestures with his fingers, “to the ferry that takes the soul to the other side.”

“Looks like she's one short. I wonder where she ended up.”

“I'd say if she’s lucky, the fare to heaven only costs a quarter, but I don't believe in luck anymore."