even to himself later on, but a chill ran up his spine for just a second.
“It aint break time, Ryan!” he shouted. “Get back to work!”
4.
Carol nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the three loud knocks at her front door. She stood at the counter in her kitchen getting a chicken ready in the roasting pan. She turned and stared at the archway that led into the dining room. Her hands were covered in chicken fat, oil, and seasonings; and she held them in front of her like a surgeon prepping for surgery.
“Tom?” she called out to the living room. “You out there?”
No answer from the living room.
“Victor? Can you see who’s at the door?”
Still no answer from the living room.
They must be upstairs, she thought. Maybe they didn’t hear the knocks at the door. But the knocking had been so loud, they should’ve heard it.
She walked over to the sink and washed her hands with some dish soap, then dried them off with a towel. She marched through the dining room and into the living room.
Carol hesitated for a moment as she stared at the front door; it was made of solid wood with three small windows at the top and tall, thin frosted glass panels on each side. If a man was tall, she could usually see the top of his head or hat in the little windows, but she didn’t see anyone in the windows now nor did she see the blurry shape of a person through the frosted glass.
But she could see something through the frosted glass – there was some kind of object on the porch.
She walked towards the door as a wave of dread washed over her. What was she afraid of?
You know what you’re afraid of, her mind whispered.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Carol pushed these thoughts from her mind and walked purposefully towards the door. It was probably just some salesman out there. Or a Jehovah’s Witness. Or maybe it was Ryan, he hadn’t gotten the job with Buddy and he came back, but forgot his key to the front door.
Carol opened the front door. There was no one in the doorway.
“Hello?” she said as she stepped out onto her front porch. She looked up and down the long and wide porch, but there was no one there. No one on her front lawn or in the driveway. No car in the driveway. She looked up and down the street and she didn’t see anyone walking away down the sidewalk.
She looked back at the doorway and saw the object she’d seen through the frosted glass – it was a suitcase. A brown suitcase.
She inspected the suitcase more closely. It seemed to be made of some kind of hard material, like a shell. It was bigger than a briefcase, but smaller than a full-size suitcase. There were two decorative leather straps that folded over the suitcase keeping it shut, and on each strap was a gold padlock looped through the gold latches.
A locked suitcase on her porch.
She stared down at the suitcase and saw the other thing that struck her as odd about this case (besides the slight musty odor it exuded), it was the small white tag that had been attached to the wooden handle with a piece of wire. She reached down and turned the tag over so she could read it. Her hand was trembling and she was suddenly afraid again, but she needed to see what was written there.
Scrawled on the white tag were two words: For Ryan.
CHAPTER SIX
1.
It was quitting time at the job site. Workers rolled up electrical cords and put tools away into tool boxes. Ryan stowed a wheelbarrow inside one of the half-completed offices. He brushed the dust off of his hands and walked through the dirt and debris towards the parking area where his (stolen) car waited for him.
He smiled as he walked. It had been a pleasant day of working. For a few blissful hours he had forgotten about his missing past, his lost memory, the urgent need to find out why he was supposed to be in this town. For a few hours he had just worked and concentrated on his tasks. His body felt good, his muscles were a little sore, but he felt good.
As Ryan walked towards his car, Buddy
“It aint break time, Ryan!” he shouted. “Get back to work!”
4.
Carol nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the three loud knocks at her front door. She stood at the counter in her kitchen getting a chicken ready in the roasting pan. She turned and stared at the archway that led into the dining room. Her hands were covered in chicken fat, oil, and seasonings; and she held them in front of her like a surgeon prepping for surgery.
“Tom?” she called out to the living room. “You out there?”
No answer from the living room.
“Victor? Can you see who’s at the door?”
Still no answer from the living room.
They must be upstairs, she thought. Maybe they didn’t hear the knocks at the door. But the knocking had been so loud, they should’ve heard it.
She walked over to the sink and washed her hands with some dish soap, then dried them off with a towel. She marched through the dining room and into the living room.
Carol hesitated for a moment as she stared at the front door; it was made of solid wood with three small windows at the top and tall, thin frosted glass panels on each side. If a man was tall, she could usually see the top of his head or hat in the little windows, but she didn’t see anyone in the windows now nor did she see the blurry shape of a person through the frosted glass.
But she could see something through the frosted glass – there was some kind of object on the porch.
She walked towards the door as a wave of dread washed over her. What was she afraid of?
You know what you’re afraid of, her mind whispered.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Carol pushed these thoughts from her mind and walked purposefully towards the door. It was probably just some salesman out there. Or a Jehovah’s Witness. Or maybe it was Ryan, he hadn’t gotten the job with Buddy and he came back, but forgot his key to the front door.
Carol opened the front door. There was no one in the doorway.
“Hello?” she said as she stepped out onto her front porch. She looked up and down the long and wide porch, but there was no one there. No one on her front lawn or in the driveway. No car in the driveway. She looked up and down the street and she didn’t see anyone walking away down the sidewalk.
She looked back at the doorway and saw the object she’d seen through the frosted glass – it was a suitcase. A brown suitcase.
She inspected the suitcase more closely. It seemed to be made of some kind of hard material, like a shell. It was bigger than a briefcase, but smaller than a full-size suitcase. There were two decorative leather straps that folded over the suitcase keeping it shut, and on each strap was a gold padlock looped through the gold latches.
A locked suitcase on her porch.
She stared down at the suitcase and saw the other thing that struck her as odd about this case (besides the slight musty odor it exuded), it was the small white tag that had been attached to the wooden handle with a piece of wire. She reached down and turned the tag over so she could read it. Her hand was trembling and she was suddenly afraid again, but she needed to see what was written there.
Scrawled on the white tag were two words: For Ryan.
CHAPTER SIX
1.
It was quitting time at the job site. Workers rolled up electrical cords and put tools away into tool boxes. Ryan stowed a wheelbarrow inside one of the half-completed offices. He brushed the dust off of his hands and walked through the dirt and debris towards the parking area where his (stolen) car waited for him.
He smiled as he walked. It had been a pleasant day of working. For a few blissful hours he had forgotten about his missing past, his lost memory, the urgent need to find out why he was supposed to be in this town. For a few hours he had just worked and concentrated on his tasks. His body felt good, his muscles were a little sore, but he felt good.
As Ryan walked towards his car, Buddy
Similar Books
