Tracks

Trigger Warning:

This story includes references to trauma, abuse, physical violence, and death. While not graphically described, this may be emotionally distressing. Reader discretion is advised.

Smith was happy, humming a tune. He’d just been granted parole. Finally. He’d gone through the motions, told them what they wanted to hear. He knew he’d messed up bad, but couldn’t quite care, either way. They’d taken twelve years from him this time. Twelve fucking years. He’d played the games and hedged his bets. Surviving everything they’d thrown at him.

In prison, you either wise up or you get played every damn day. You might end up dead. Always playing roulette, never knowing how many rounds are loaded. Any chance he might have had at rehabilitation was swallowed whole by a system so broken it only saw him as cheap labor. Cheap forced labor, at that. He’d tried to play nice, to do the right things early on. He quickly saw how that only made him a target for the real threats in there: the gangs.

It was a raw deal, no doubt. You need protection? Join a gang. Forget about any help from the law. The gang pulled you down with them, though. Never any advancement, always getting new charges, never any “good time”, but what could you do? Some guys spent all their time working out, just to grow strong enough to protect themselves. Sometimes that worked. Others checked out, refusing housing to spend their time in the hole. Anything to avoid getting beat down over and over. Having all their measly possessions stolen. Or worse.

Smith heard a faint growl that brought him back to the present. A few feet away, a black cat was backing up, ears flat, a low growl vibrated from behind his pursed lips. Smith really liked cats. He lowered himself down, making himself as small as possible. He slowly showed his hands and began talking very low in soothing tones to calm the little guy down. No longer seeing him as a threat, the cat eased into a crouch, ready to spring away, if needed. Smith smiled and told him he was a pretty boy. The cat tilted his head, as if in question.

Lights washed over him as a car turned the corner nearby. The cat hissed and was gone in a flash. Smith straightened, pulling himself back up and heard yelling in the distance. The hairs on the back of his neck stood and his fists clenched. He could feel something was happening, something was off in the air. He’d learned to trust his instincts long ago.

It was dark now and he melted into shadows, walking soundlessly toward the noise. He heard a slap and a thunk, movement on gravel. Moments later, there was a low groan. Over it all was the sound of yelling and cussing. Then came laughter. Not the funny kind, but the menacing kind. Smith moved faster, closing in; the noise was coming from behind a wooden fence that stretched out in front of him.

Suddenly, he heard running steps and melted deeper into the shadows. He watched as two men ran by, eyes forward. As they passed, one of the men’s faces was half-lit by car lights from across the way. Smith recognized him in that instant and willed himself deeper into the shadow. He watched as the men jumped into a car parked across the street, his eyes picking out the myriad details of the vehicle and the license plate. Once they were out of sight, he felt a stone settle in his stomach. He knew he had to see what there was to see, but felt only apprehension.

As he approached the fence, he heard a gasp. Moving faster now, he launched himself over to land in a small graveled parking area. Two cars sat at the opposite end. The dust accumulated on both was revealing; they had sat parked for a long time. The parking area was empty except for a girl, lying on her side, facing away from him a few meters away. As he approached, she appeared completely still, as if unconscious or worse.

Drawing close, he could see her shallow breathing and finally let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Kneeling down, he lightly touched her hand. She didn’t move. Speaking in soft tones brought no response. The splash of red against the gravel was telling. Her face was bruised and slightly misshapen, but what caught his eye and his heart was the steady trickle of blood from her neck.

Knowing he’d be a suspect with his rap sheet, he knew he’d be better off walking away. Looking down at her, he just couldn’t do it. Spying her purse a few feet away, he prayed she had a phone. He rushed to it, emptying its contents. There wasn’t much in it, no wallet, no phone, just the normal debris a woman accumulates over time. However, there was a feminine napkin, which he used to place pressure over the wound on her neck.

He was at odds, not knowing what his next move should be. She needed help but during his time behind bars a great deal had changed. He hadn’t spotted a single payphone since he’d been out. Looking around, he felt the lack of presence; this place really felt deserted.

He dropped his face into his free hand, willing himself to come up with a plan that didn’t involve him going back to prison. He heard a scrape of gravel right behind him. Before he could fully turn, everything went black.

Slowly climbing up through layers, he could hear someone talking near him, but couldn’t make sense of what they were saying. He kept trying to reach the surface but something was holding his thoughts underwater. He let it go for a moment, drifting a bit. Words slowly came into focus.

“Laying next to her body” and “tip from an anonymous source” featured pretty loudly in his brain. So, she was dead. Someone called it in, but where had that someone been to help?

“Saw him fighting with her, trying to get her purse” and “Guy’s nothing but trouble, you hear what he did?” Shit. He was the suspect they were talking about.

“Name’s Smith—S-M-I-T-H”, to all the saints that are holy, let this be a goddamned nightmare. He could now see the swim of blue-and-reds between the cracks in his eyes, all too real. He was going down for murder, if he didn’t do something fast. Cracking his eyes a little wider, he took in his position. He was laying across the back seat of a police cruiser, with his arms handcuffed in the front. Thank God he was so broad of shoulder they couldn’t get them linked behind his back without extra cuffs. That told him there was only one officer on scene.

Okay, this sucks but there’s nothing for it. He prayed the cop hadn’t done a complete search on him and was rewarded with a pick in his front jeans pocket. He silently went to work on the cuffs, slipping them with ease. Opening his eyes a bit more, he saw the officer was bent over the girl, talking on his radio. His back was turned to Smith, all the better. He eased out of the cruiser silently and made for the shadows behind it at the edge of the lot.

Walking heel-to-toe, padding silently, he moved fast to leave the scene before more officers arrived. He cut down an alleyway and, once he was out of earshot, began running while hugging shadows. Moments later, he heard yelling and the squeal of tires. No more hiding, he flew into a dead sprint, weaving through back alleyways and avoiding the road.

Finally, he came to a warehouse that looked closed for the night, with only a single light on in front. He crept around to the back and picked the simple lock on the door to gain entry. Outside, he could hear a police chase begin in earnest, but they hadn’t seen where he went. The sirens were distant. He moved like a shadow through the stacks of crates and shelves until he found a place to crouch in the darkness to think.

He realized he’d been set up. It was all just too coincidental to have seen Stringer, but not be seen by him. They’d had bad blood for over a decade all because Smith wouldn’t join his little gang. When they came for him, Smith had beat him down to prove that point. What a fucking tool. So what? Kill a girl just to steal his freedom? Yep, definitely sounded like Stringer.

Smith felt the fury ride through his system. What he’d done had been necessary, though the law hadn’t seen it that way. They couldn’t understand the hard choices you have to make living on the streets. This time would be no different, except that he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t prove his innocence, even if the system did work. But they would prove his guilt through his past actions and associations. No need to know the truth.

Smith decided to stay free as long as he could, knowing once he was behind those bars, he’d never get out again. He’d try to live as full a life as he could in the next days or months. It was all he was going to get. He wished that cat next to him. That would at least feel like living.

After a long while, he began to creep around the warehouse, ensuring he was truly alone and the place was secured. He found some canned goods and realized he hadn’t eaten in a long while. Selecting a can of peaches and a can of beef stew, he sat down back in his corner to eat. The sirens grew more distant and his thoughts began to drift.

He startled awake to a sound outside. He could hear a car door slam and a man having a one-sided conversation with himself. He quietly gathered himself and listened for the sound of the man’s keys in the front door. Smith slid quietly out the back.

It was pre-dawn, lights still on, guarding against the darkness. As the sky began lightening ever so slowly, he noticed a cornfield adjacent to the warehouse. He made his way to it and disappeared from view.

He wandered quietly for a long while through the stalks, pondering his next move. He heard a train whistle blow not too far away and thought that was a good thing. He made his way to the tracks, moving in shadow. The train was coming in fast and he started to run in preparation.

He leapt for the handle and made the jump clean. A quick glance in the car told him he was alone. He crouched by the door, looking out. That’s when he spied the same yellow Impala from the night before. His eyes narrowed. He could stay where he was and remain free for a while. Or he could go after Stringer. He hesitated only an instant before jumping back down from the train. Letting his body go, he tucked into a roll to take the impact, then scooted close to a nearby bush.

Looking around, he saw lots of cover. He made his way deeper into the bushes and staked himself out to watch for his quarry.

Back at the crime scene, an officer explained the situation to a man in plain clothes. The detective nodded grimly and quietly walked off. After getting in his car, Melville opened a file that was sitting on his front seat. The name flashed in the light: Smith. Melville looked out at the night and sighed. Melville was no hero or given to wishful thinking. He still couldn’t help feeling that they had the whole thing wrong. Turning his ignition, he threw the car into gear and drove off quietly toward the cornfield in the distance.

He pulled in to a convenience store and hit the restroom. Coming back out, he got some coffee and a doughnut. Heading toward the register, he backtracked to the little medicine section and picked up some Tums. Better safe than sorry.

After making his purchase, Melville walked back out to his car. He saw a figure moving in the distance and decided to watch for a minute. As he realized it was Smith, he threw the car in gear and backed out quietly. He drove down the road, trying to keep his eyes on both the man and what was in front of him. Directly in front of him, the railroad crossing gate came down. He looked and was about to zip across it, but was stopped dead by the imminent arrival of the train in question. He squinted in the direction the man had been running, but couldn’t see him any longer.

Smith was tired of waiting. Hours had passed and he was tired and hungry. Darkness was falling fast. He felt something closing in and knew it was probably his last chance to act. He crept up to the house where the car was parked, taking care to remain in shadow. He doubled around the back and inched up to a window to look inside: square room with a twin bed in it and nothing else.

Cautiously, he crept window to window, being careful to make no sound. At the last one, he struck gold. There was his quarry and two other men, all sitting around a table. The two men weighed and bagged what looked like methamphetamine, while Stringer watched and, clearly, supervised. There were two handguns lying on the table within reach of any of them. He could also see a sawed-off shotgun propped in the corner nearest to Stringer.

Running a mental inventory of his possessions yielded a pick, his wallet, and a spare set of shoelaces. Fuck. He needed to get Stringer away from the other two if he would even have a chance, preferably completely away from those guns. He had an idea and crept back to the window of a bathroom he’d passed. It was cracked.

Quietly, he slid it open and climbed inside. He looked around and decided the shower was the best place to hide until the bastard needed to relieve himself.

In the kitchen, Stringer watched as his associates finished bagging the last of the product. “Okay, you guys know what to do. Go get my money.” The men mumbled and gathered their things, then walked out the door.

Smith heard the car’s engine turn over and his heart dropped. Rushing out of the bathroom across to the window, he saw only two silhouettes in the vehicle as it drove away. He realized his error right as he heard a floorboard creek behind him.

Quickly, he dropped into a crouch as he spun, narrowly missing being shot by the Glock Stringer had just fired. Using his momentum, he extended his leg and swept Stringer’s feet out from under him, making him tumble down. The gun scattered across the floor.

Smith tried to grab him, but missed as Stringer rolled away, his hands clutching at empty air. He noted he was between where Stringer was now standing and the weapon; he aimed to keep it that way.

Stringer stood up, smoothing his hair with his hands, while laughing. “Oh Smithy-boy, what have we done? They ain’t caught you yet?”

Smith glowered, “I’m not taking the fall for you again, Stringer. You know what you did.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about old Smithy, I was at home, I was. In my bed. But I heard what you did to your little sister, Jenny. That’s cold even for you.” Stringer taunted, waiting for the words to sink in.

Smith hadn’t thought about Jenny in years; separated by the foster system, he’d long ago lost track of her. She’d been nine the last time he saw her. A weight settled into his stomach as the truth of Stringer’s words hit him with force: the girl he had tried to save was Jenny.

“Yeah, I guess if you couldn’t have her, no one could, huh? Sick bastard.” Stringer’s laugh became more menacing.

Something in Smith snapped; unleashed, he barreled through Stringer, punching and elbowing him in such a rapid fury, Stringer couldn’t fight him off. His smile slipped as sweat dripped from his brow. He tried to backpedal and get away, but Smith grabbed him from behind and wrapped his heavily-muscled arms around Stringer’s throat. The pressure was intense and closing in, as he gasped for air, swatting pathetically at Smith’s arms.

Melville burst through the door and took it all in. He could see Smith was lost to rage, but tried to reason with him, “Smith, it’s me! It’s your brother, John. Please don’t do this! That piece of shit isn’t worth your life!” Smith squeezed harder one last time and Melville felt the visceral snap reverberate through the room. Smith dropped Stringer’s body, lifeless, to the floor and crouched down as he started to cry, burying his face in his hands.

Melville dropped to his knees, knowing he’d lost both his siblings now. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He could hear sirens growing louder and knew exactly what he had to do. He suddenly felt old beyond time. And weary.

Smith slowly drew himself up, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He squinted at Melville, trying to reconcile him with the brother he’d known. He sighed. They’d always been on opposite sides of the tracks. "Can't you see? I didn't have a choice."

Melville sighed, "Yeah, I can see that. But now neither do I".

As the cruiser pulled away, bearing both brothers in opposite places, Smith looked out the window. The black cat peeked out from the bushes. Standing very still, he tilted his head, as if in question.