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  ALREADY GONE

  JOHN RECTOR

  ALREADY GONE

  A NOVEL

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright ©2011 John Rector

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN: 978-1-61218-087-8

  For Zoe and Eliot, with love

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  – 1 –

  – 2 –

  – 3 –

  – 4 –

  – 5 –

  – 6 –

  – 7 –

  – 8 –

  – 9 –

  – 10 –

  – 11 –

  – 12 –

  – 13 –

  – 14 –

  PART II

  – 15 –

  – 16 –

  – 17 –

  – 18 –

  – 19 –

  – 20 –

  – 21 –

  – 22 –

  – 23 –

  – 24 –

  – 25 –

  – 26 –

  – 27 –

  – 28 –

  – 29 –

  – 30 –

  – 31 –

  – 32 –

  – 33 –

  – 34 –

  – 35 –

  – 36 –

  – 37 –

  – 38 –

  – 39 –

  – 40 –

  – 41 –

  – 42 –

  – 43 –

  – 44 –

  – 45 –

  PART III

  – 46 –

  – 47 –

  – 48 –

  – 49 –

  – 50 –

  – 51 –

  – 52 –

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART 1

  – 1 –

  I put up a good fight.

  But once they get me on the ground, facedown, with the big guy holding my arms and pressing his weight into my back, there isn’t much I can do. I call them every name I can think of, but they don’t say a word. I tell them they can take my wallet, my car, anything they want, if they just get the fuck off me.

  Still nothing.

  I try to roll to the side, but the big guy grinds his knee into my spine and pulls up on my arms. My shoulder starts to slip in the socket and I scream, more out of frustration than pain.

  Inside the bar, everyone is still drinking. Doug is telling stories about the sixties and getting high with the Beats, while the rest of the faculty listens and laughs and pretends to be impressed. I know this because up until five minutes ago, I was one of them.

  Now I’m out here with these two, and I have no idea who they are.

  I’d seen them earlier, sitting at the end of the bar and staring at our table, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was a quiet place, and Doug was loud. Everyone was staring. The only reason I noticed them at all was because of the jagged scar on the little one’s neck. It ran from one ear to the other like a swollen pink worm, bright and impressive.

  After a couple drinks, I told everyone I had to get home to my wife. There were a few good-natured newlywed jokes that I waved off before getting up to leave. Someone, obviously drunk, said we should have all our department meetings in bars.

  Everyone laughed.

  As I walked out, I didn’t see the two guys at the bar, and I didn’t notice anyone following me. Once outside, everything was quiet and dark. There was a soft breeze passing through the trees lining the parking lot, and the late summer air felt cool against my skin.

  I took the keys from my pocket and started walking. I was almost to my car when I heard footsteps coming up fast.

  I turned, but it was too late.

  One of them hit me across the face, hard, and for an instant everything faded. Then the pain focused me and I started swinging. It was two against one, but I still managed to get in a few good shots before they took me down.

  Now I’m here.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been jumped, and since I don’t see a gun, I figure everything will be okay. A few bruises, wallet gone, nothing I can’t walk away from.

  Then I see the bolt cutters.

  “What the f—”

  Again, I try to struggle free, and again the big guy presses down on my back, harder this time, and all the air rushes out of my lungs. I can’t breathe, and an explosion of tiny black flowers blooms behind my eyes. I taste the oiled surface of the asphalt on my lips and try to lift my head to see what’s coming.

  Behind me, the big guy says something in a language I don’t recognize, then the man with the scar and the bolt cutters steps closer.

  I try to say something, anything, but there is no air and no voice. Dark shadows creep in along the edges of my vision, and I know I’m close to passing out.

  My lungs burn.

  I barely notice the big guy prying my hand open.

  I bite the insides of my cheeks so hard I taste blood. It brings me back, just a little, but it’s enough.

  I won’t let myself pass out.

  I feel the cold metal blades slide around my finger, and I close my eyes tight.

  I won’t pass out.

  A second later, the man with the bolt cutters leans forward. There is a quick, hard movement, and I hear something snap, loud and wet.

  The pain is stunning.

  It screams up my arm and into my brain and then it is everywhere and I forget all about my lungs. Again, the dark shadows rush in from the edges like a flutter of wings, blinding me, turning the world black.

  This time, I let them come.

  When I open my eyes, the big guy is standing over me wiping his hands with a small white towel. I’m on my back staring up at one of the streetlights in the parking lot. Hundreds of tiny bugs circle in the pale yellow glow. It makes me think of winter and snowfall.

  The two men are searching the ground by my feet, ignoring me. A moment later, the one with the bolt cutters bends down and pushes my legs aside. When he stands, he’s holding my severed finger by the tip.

  The streetlight reflects clean and gold off the wedding ring just below the knuckle.

  I want to stand. I want to tell them not to take my ring, but I can’t find the words. I try to sit up, but the pain in my ribs pushes me back.

  I don’t have the strength to scream.

  I stay on the ground and listen to the breath rattle in my chest. I have to cough. I try my best to hold it in, but I can’t, and this time I do scream.

  The big guy bends down and reaches for my hand.

  I don’t even try to fight.

  He takes the white towel he was using and presses it against the spot where my finger used to be, then he takes my other hand and holds it against the towel.

  “Tight,” he says.

  My left hand is warm and wet. I pull it in and squeeze it to my chest. The towel is red with blood.

  The big guy stands and says something to the man with the bolt cutters. The man nods and starts walking across the parking lot.

  The big guy watches him go, then looks down at me and says, “Nothing personal, okay?”

  The accent is thick, and I can’t place it.

  “Fuck you,” I say.

  It isn’t much, but it’s all I have.

  The big guy smiles, turns, and is gone.

  I stay on the ground, unable to move, staring up at the pale yellow light. I think about Diane and about the wedding ring I’ve worn for the past month, the one I’ll probably never see again.

  All at once, I feel like crying.

  I’m not sure why.

  I put up a good fight.

  – 2 –

  “The good news is that it’s a clean cut. You probably won’t need surgery.”

  This is good news.

  Anything is good news when you’re on morphine.

  My hand is resting on a silver suture tray and covered in a cocoon of white gauze that makes my arm look like an oversized Q-tip. The doctor examines the bandage, then puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “You’re not a piano player, are you?”

  I ignore him and turn toward the cop sitting on the red plastic chair next to the bed. He’s talking to Diane, asking her if she knows of anyone who might want to hurt me. He wants to know if I have any enemies.

  Diane is staring at the walls, the floor, her hands, anywhere but at him. There are tears on her cheeks, and when she speaks her voice is soft.

  “No one,” she says. “Of course not.”

  The cop looks at me. “How about you? Anyone out there holding a grudge?”

  “A grudge?” Diane looks from me to the cop, then back. “Over what?”

  The cop stares at me, waiting.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

  The cop scribbles something in his notebook.

  “What is he talking about?” Diane asks. “Does someone want to hurt you?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No one.”

  I can tell Diane wants to say something else, but
instead she just frowns and looks away.

  Nobody says anything for a while. Finally, Diane straightens in her chair and says, “So, what’s the next step?” She reaches for my good hand, squeezes, then turns back to the cop. “How long before you find these people?”

  The cop looks up, and to his credit he doesn’t smile, but I can see it in his eyes.

  He tells her once the report is filed, it’ll be assigned to a detective who will go over the details of the case, talk to witnesses, run any descriptions through the database. He tells her they’ll follow every lead to make sure the two men are caught.

  If this were any other time, I’d laugh.

  The cop will file a report. A detective might even look at the report, but that’s where it’ll stop. Random violence cases, especially the ones with no witnesses and no fatalities, are rarely solved.

  I know this.

  The cop knows this.

  I think on some level Diane knows this, too, but we all go through the motions and play our roles. Who knows, maybe this will be the one time the system works.

  Once the cop is gone, the doctor comes back with prescriptions for pain medication and antibiotics. He hands them to Diane and says, “Keep the hand clean and watch for infection. Make sure he takes the antibiotics. If you see anything strange, bring him in.”

  Diane tells him she will, and after he leaves, she sits next to me on the side of the bed.

  “What did that cop mean about someone holding a grudge?”

  “No idea.”

  “Is it because of your dad?” she asks. “You mentioned some of his friends in the book. You don’t think one of them saw it and—”

  “You’re reaching,” I say. “The two guys tonight were strangers, I’ve never seen them before. They were probably drug addicts who wanted my ring so they could pawn it.”

  “But they didn’t take your wallet.”

  “No,” I say. “They didn’t.”

  “It’s strange, Jake.”

  “It is what it is.” I sit up, slow, and point to my coat. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Diane helps me with my jacket. My ribs are wrapped tight, and my hand won’t fit through the sleeve so we run the jacket under my arm like a toga. It looks ridiculous, and I can’t help but smile.

  Diane doesn’t.

  “I just don’t understand why they came after you,” she says. “There were a lot of people in that bar, but they waited outside for you. There has to be a reason.”

  “I was alone. That was enough.”

  “You think that’s it?”

  “What else could it be?”

  Diane stares at me for a moment, then shakes her head and looks away. “I don’t know.”

  I take her hand. “If you start looking for answers and asking, ‘Why me?’ you’ll go crazy. They came after me because they saw me as an easy target, that’s all.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You had money, and they didn’t take it.”

  “I wish they had,” I say. “I hate to lose that ring.”

  “It was just a ring. We’ll get another.”

  “We can’t do that. It’s bad luck.”

  Diane laughs, soft and delicate. “The first one wasn’t exactly lucky, was it?”

  “No,” I say. “I guess it wasn’t.”

  When we get out to the waiting room, I see Doug sitting in a chair by the window. His head is back and his mouth is open and he’s snoring. The sound echoes.

  “Has he been here all this time?” I ask.

  “I guess so,” Diane says. “He must’ve stuck around after he called me.”

  I don’t remember how long I was in the parking lot. My only memory is of someone pulling me up by one arm, then sitting in Doug’s backseat with him telling me to keep my hand over my head.

  “You want to wake him up?” Diane asks.

  I tell her to go ahead, and she does.

  Doug opens his eyes and looks from Diane to me. When he sees my hand, he winces. “Shit, Jake, what’d they say?”

  “Apparently, someone cut off my finger.”

  Diane looks at me, frowns.

  Doug shakes his head. “Who knows, maybe it’ll improve your typing.”

  “Always the optimist,” I say.

  Doug stands and grabs his coat and slides it over his shoulders. “What did the cops tell you?”

  “That they’re working hard, following every lead.”

  Doug nods. “Then I guess it’s just a matter of time.”

  He winks at me.

  I can’t help but smile.

  The three of us cross the parking lot together. I feel fine, but Diane holds my arm every step of the way.

  Doug is reminiscing.

  “I never once locked my doors until I went to college, and you want to know why I started?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Because people kept coming in and taking my dope. Never because of this shit.”

  “It’s a different world.”

  “And one I don’t understand,” he says. “It’s like I woke up one day and everything was off-kilter. Not a lot, but enough to where all the rules have changed.”

  “I think that’s called old age.”

  “I never locked my doors growing up,” Diane says. “Now, I never leave them unlocked.”

  “See, your wife agrees with me.” He looks at her, asks, “Where did you grow up, hon?”

  “Name a place. My father was in the military so we moved a lot, base to base mostly.”

  “Military bases are safer than cities,” I say.

  “Obviously, you’ve never lived on one.”

  “Not everyone grew up like you did, Jake. Some of us remember a time when you didn’t need to look over your shoulder when you stepped outside.” Doug points at my bandaged hand. “And this kind of thing was unheard of. If they wanted your ring so bad, why didn’t they just make you take the goddamn thing off?”

  “You see?” Diane pulls at my arm. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Tell you the truth,” Doug says. “I’ve had enough. A couple more years teaching, and I’m done. I’ve got a little place on the beach in Mexico. All mine. It’ll be me, a few drinks, and the waves.”

  “Sounds nice,” Diane says.

  “It’s beautiful. I’ll make sure to have the two of you down for a visit. You can see for yourself.”

  No one says anything else until we get to Doug’s car.

  “I’ll talk to Anne Carlson about rescheduling the meeting,” Doug says. “She won’t mind, considering the situation.”

  “I don’t want to reschedule.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want everyone making a big deal out of this.”