WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (Part 14)

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Rhonda Gates again? Or maybe a cop, come to take me away? I grabbed the gun I’d taken from the sheriff’s car. I wouldn’t shoot a cop come to arrest me, but I wouldn’t be taken alive, either.

I looked through the peephole and saw a middle-aged man in the dark blue suit and red and white striped tie. His graying hair was immaculately groomed, kind of like that former NFL football coach I see on television every Sunday in the fall—you know, the one who does the pre-game and halftime shows. I couldn’t think of his name, but it didn’t really matter. He appeared to be alone, but there could be others around back, ready to nab me if I made a run for it.

I mentally rehearsed what would happen if he flashed a badge or made any attempt to apprehend me. I would use my left arm—the injured one—to keep him away. It would be painful, sure, but only for a moment. With my right hand I would put the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. I kept the man at the door waiting as I ran through it again, rehearsed the move a couple of times. The doorbell rang again, and he knocked. I took a deep breath and opened the door, holding the gun behind my back.

“Good morning!” The man at the door greeted me with a little too much enthusiasm for so early in the morning. “You must be TC!” he said. “I’m Pastor Phil!” He smiled benevolently and extended his right hand. In his left, he held a worn Bible close to his heart. “Your neighbor, Rhonda Gates, asked me to drop by.”

I hadn’t rehearsed what I would do if the visitor turned out to be someone other than a cop. “Nice to meet you,” I said, moving my left hand behind my back, wincing with the pain of the movement, to take the gun, allowing me to shake his hand with my right. Otherwise, I would look like an asshole.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Pastor Phil broke it by asking, “Do you mind if I come in?”

Again, not wanting to be an asshole, I stepped back, opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter my abode. “Ms. Gates asked you to come by?”

“Yes. Yes, she did.” Without my offering it, Pastor Phil took a seat at the kitchen table. “I always like to meet new people who have moved into our community. Especially those who might have special prayer needs or concerns.”

That kind of took me by surprise. “What are you talking about, pastor?” I went to the refrigerator for some orange juice, then took a chair opposite him at the table. I didn’t bother to offer him anything.

He smiled and changed the subject. “How do you like Messerton, TC?” Obviously, he knew that I was new in town. Rhonda Gates had probably told him as much.

I took a sip of juice. “So far, so good.”

“What happened to your arm?” he pointed to my home-made bandage.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just a minor scrape, that’s all.”

“Where are you from originally, TC?

Whoa! That was getting a little too close. “Is where I’m from really important?” I asked. Probably a mistake to be so defensive. “Ohio,” I said before he could reply. “Dayton.”

Pastor Phil leaned forward. “I understand. Sometimes it’s best to leave the past in the past. It’s more important where we are going than where we have been.” He looked out the window, took a deep breath. “Messerton’s a good town. Good people.”

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I spent the next half hour pretending to be interested as Pastor Phil told me all about his community, his church, his parishioners. I wasn’t interested in any of it, plus he reminded me of a fellow I used to fly with occasionally, Tony Clements. He had the same slicked back silver hair and husky frame. 

Tony Clements. I hadn’t thought of him in ages. But I don’t think I could ever forget him. He and I were flying out to the west coast in a DC9 one morning, after being up all night. I was dragging ass, hadn’t slept well the day before in Philadelphia. The maids kept chattering in the hallway, knocking on my door, “Housekeeping!” and calling on the phone to ask if I wanted my room cleaned, and I had to tell them I was a day sleeper and that’s why the Do Not Disturb sign was on my door. I finally called the front desk to complain, not that it did any good. Anyway, I was exhausted and wasn’t going to make it all the way to the west coast, so I told Tony I was going to close my eyes for a few minutes.

When I awoke, I saw we had just passed Tulsa and something didn’t seem quite right. I took a look at my Hi Altitude Jeppesen Enroute chart and saw the problem. “We’re on the wrong airway, Tony,” I said. After crossing Tulsa, Tony had flown outbound on the wrong J-route. We were flying about 15 degrees off our filed route. Fortunately, we hadn’t gone so far as for it to be noticeable to ATC. I reset the CDI for the correct outbound radial. “Let’s take about a 25 degree cut to the right to intercept,” I told him. “Nothing too drastic. No sense bringing this to ATC’s attention.” I stayed awake the rest of the flight, and I don’t think I ever napped again when flying with Tony Clements.

Eventually, Pastor Phil shut up and reached across the table and placed a hand on my forearm. “I should be going soon, TC. Miss Rhonda told me about your … your … relationship with Michael Welch. The Bible says that what you are doing is an abomination! I came here to pray for you to be delivered from it!”

I said OKAY, I supposed it would be alright, thinking that we would just sit there like we were, across the table from one another. But Pastor Phil came around to my side of the table and sat next to me.

The prayer began predictably, Pastor Phil thanking God for the opportunity to come together in fellowship, then going on to say that we came before Him asking for His comfort, guidance, and forgiveness, the usual stuff. Then he began fervently beseeching the Lord to forgive me for my horrible sins. He went on and on. And on. I felt his hand cover mine and gently squeeze. I wasn’t comfortable with that, so I withdrew my hand, stood and said “Amen,” cutting him off. His head jerked up; his eyes wide with surprise. Before he could speak I said, “I need you to leave now.”

There had to be a hundred other things I could have said that would have more politely ended our visit, but at that moment, “I need you to leave now” was all I had. I stood, motioned toward the front door. I then ushered Pastor Phil out onto the porch and closed the door behind him before he could say anything.

Relieved to finally have him out of the house, I went back into the kitchen, took my juice glass to the sink. The microwave clock said 10:14. With my with my back to the sink, I rested my hands on the counter and thought about what the preacher had said.

Then I started putting it together. Rhonda Gates would have no doubt made it her business to know everything about her tenant. If Welch/Mulligan was gay, and had mentioned that a friend, or maybe someone who was more than a friend would be coming to stay, she would be watching, waiting for an opportunity to check out the new arrival.

Apparently, Welch’s friend had not yet moved to Messerton, which meant Rhonda Gates and Pastor Phil must have assumed that I was Welch’s friend . . . or current significant other. My opinions on the subject had changed over the years. These days, I was more like ‘To each, their own. Live and let live’.

My mind was racing full speed now. If Mulligan . . . I mean Welch, had told Rhonda Gates that a friend would soon be coming, how long did I have before he actually showed up? Days? Minutes? And what would I do when he arrived?

I went into the living room and for the first time actually looked at the photographs on the wall. Two men in tuxedoes, smiling, embracing. There was Welch, and from the look of it, maybe his life partner? Michael Welch. Gay ex-Marine hit man. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I said aloud, quoting Jerry Seinfeld.

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I couldn’t stay in Messerton. And I’d better be getting out of there fast.

If I stayed, I would be caught. I would be tried for murder. I would spend the rest of my life in a prison cell with some dude with more tattoos than teeth.

I should have thought about a lot of things. Too late now. I had to gather up anything of value—computer, cash, and of course the password list. Just gather them all up and go—now! Get away from Messerton and figure out what came next when I had the luxury of time to think.

I raced through the house, wiping off the refrigerator door handle, the kitchen counter top, chairs, the toilet seat and flush lever, anywhere that I might have placed my hands. I grabbed the computer, the cash that I’d found, and threw my clothes into my backpack.

I hopped into the truck and drove for hours, well into the night, putting as many miles behind me as I could. I needed a good night’s rest, so I checked into a Hampton Inn just outside of Nashville, Tennessee. Before turning in, I ventured across the street to Walmart, where I purchased some first aid supplies and extra gauze bandages for my wounds.

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I had Mulligan’s driver’s license and passport. I had his credit cards. And I had a little over four hundred dollars in cash. How far could I get on that? No one was likely to cancel the credit cards. I should be able to use them right up to the limit as long as I made the minimum monthly payments. I resembled the photographs on the passport and driver’s license enough that I would pass a cursory inspection, but did I dare risk trying to go through TSA security to board an airplane?

With no better ideas for a better plan coming to mind, I proceeded to the Port of Tampa. It made me nervous, driving to Florida. Such a long distance. A lot could happen between Messerton, Illinois and Tampa, Florida. I could be driving down the interstate, and someone from my hometown back in Indiana could be in the next lane, look over and recognize me without my even knowing it. ‘Hey, isn’t that Ty Hamilton? I thought he was dead.’

I wondered if it might be possible to just drive to Los Angeles and pick up the cruise from there, but that would mean making inquiries, which would draw attention, the one thing I wanted to avoid. Besides, what better place to lay low than on a cruise ship?

I decided that I would drive to Tampa, but only after dark. I would allow plenty of time, stay at or under the speed limit, and keep a low profile in general.

I paid for an extra night at the Hampton Inn, and slept as much as I could, which wasn’t a lot. I catnapped a lot, rested and meditated with my eyes closed. But I couldn’t shut down my brain. It kept thinking about that desktop computer and all the information it contained, and how I couldn’t very well lug it onto the cruise ship.

89

I left the Hampton Inn shortly after midnight. Sometime around two-thirty in the morning, I pulled into a truck stop just outside Chattanooga. Using Jared Mulligan’s credit card, I filled the tank, then moved the truck away from the pumps and went in to take a leak. While inside, I bought a large roller suitcase, one of those kits that have electrical adapters for anywhere in the world that you would care to go, and a backpack, plus a cup of coffee and a couple of chocolate bars, again using Mulligan’s credit card. I’d always thought it kind of odd that a truck stop would sell luggage. But when you need it, you need it, and I was glad they had it.

On the way back out to the truck, I heard a car with no muffler pulling in. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed a familiar-looking Chevy with no bumper and Tennessee license plate duct taped to the inside of its rear windshield. Ollie and Edie.

I watched as they got out. Ollie slowly shuffling toward the convenience store. Edie scurrying ahead on high heels like she was walking on hot coals. I waited a minute or so, then using their car to conceal me from anyone coming out of the building, I stepped up and peered into the window behind the driver’s seat. They hadn’t even bothered to cover up the backpack. A thief could see it and do a quick smash and grab.

I looked around to make sure no one was watching. I scanned the immediate area, looking for something to use to break the window. There always seem to be rocks lying around when you don’t need one. None here, though. I thought about using the handle of a window squeegee from over by the gas pump, but thought I’d probably only break the plastic handle.

Was there anything in the truck I could use?

A quick smash and grab. Not a stand around, drawing attention to yourself while you take your time looking for something to use, botched-up attempt that gets you caught.

I decided to use the butt of the gun. I pulled it from my waistband, readied myself to deliver the blow. It suddenly occurred to me that there would probably be video surveillance cameras scanning the parking lot.  I couldn’t risk it.

I turned to go. Then, as an afterthought I checked to see if they had bothered to lock the doors.

90

Taking the phone and iPad—there was no cash—and leaving the backpack in the back seat of the unlocked car had been easy and, I figured, low-risk. No damage to the car, and the backpack still there meant that nothing would be noticed. Nothing noticed, nothing reported. Nothing reported meant no need to review the surveillance video.

Ollie and Edie might not even realize that the items in the backpack were gone until much later. Even then, they wouldn’t report that someone had taken stolen property from them. I was glad to have it back, and was anxious to try again to guess the PIN.

For good measure, and payback, I took the license plate off the back window, and also the registration from the glove box and pitched them in a nearby trash can. Not surprisingly, there was no proof of insurance.