Chapter 2-A Stranger's Message
That evening, I sat on the window seat in my room, staring out at the street below me, and I wondered: Am I a murderer?
The police had phoned my parents earlier in the evening and had explained it all to them. They had even said that they wanted to present me with an award. I had immediately declined. I didn't want all the publicity that something like that would bring. The only reason I had chased the guy was because he had killed an innocent girl.
I then recalled what he had said to me right before he died. Your time is near, Wanderer. Soon, you will be gone.I shuddered at the thought of what that threat might bring. I felt sure that, even though he was dead, I hadn't seen the last of people like him.
I heard a knock on my door and called, "Come in."
My mom entered and I made room for her on the window seat beside me. She sat down and placed a plate of lukewarm chicken in between us. I smiled as this kind gesture conjured up a memory of before.
I had been only seven years old and lying in bed with a pounding headache. The headache had come because I hadn't had any nutrition to speak of all day. So, as I lay in bed, my mother brought of me a plate of lukewarm chicken, salted just right. I had eaten the whole plate and then fallen asleep not two minutes later. The next day, my headache had been completely gone. I never forgot that.
"Thanks, Mom." I said, my voice filled with gratitude at her kindness. I dug into the chicken with gusto and smiled. It was salted just right. As I peeled smaller stripes off of the bigger piece of chicken, I turned to watch the busy street below.
"What are you looking at?" My mom asked me.
"Nothing." I replied. "I'm looking at nothing. I'm searching for something. Something important. I don't know what it is, but I know it's important."
I turned to look at her. Her eyes looked as though she was far away, and I realized that she was living in the past. I had never noticed it before, but my mother dressed like an old lady. She didn't believe in wearing make-up, so it made her look even more like an old lady.
At first, when I had been popular, I had borrowed my friends' make-up and used it at school, then removed it before I went home. My mother had never found out, but I had eventually stopped using make-up so as to not arouse suspicion. But, after a while, I just didn't care anymore.
I turned my face back to the window and sat in silence, watching the cars go by and scanning each passenger. Was I looking for a person, or a thing?
I found it strange that I was looking for…something, or someone, and I didn't even know who they were. Stranger, still, though, was what I did know.
Somehow, I knew that the man that afternoon had been looking for me. I knew that he had threatened my safety and the safety of others, and yet, I didn't know why.
I turned away from the window and was about to speak, when I noticed that my mom wasn't in the room. She had left me with my thoughts. And more lukewarm chicken. I thought. I smiled and ate my fill, which was all of it.
-
I don't know how long I had been sitting on the window seat before I found what I was looking for. Or, should I say, whom?
As I was wondering if my instincts were wrong, a neutral black car pulled up in front of our house. I held my breath. Was the person trying to kill me? Did they have a gun?
I braced myself and watched as a man in his late twenties, early thirties, climbed out of the car and stretched. He was acting very casual, but his outfit gave him away.
I never did know much about fashion, but what I did know was that no one wears a tux if they're trying to be casual.
I waited in suspense as the man strolled onto the sidewalk and looked up at the house. I froze. He was looking directly at me. Seemingly satisfied, he went up to the front door and knocked.
I bolted straight for my old baseball bat from little league (I had been a big fan of sports as a kid. Being tall and gangly paid off.)
I wielded the bat with experience and precision. I knew how to use it if I wanted to kill someone. Now, I wasn't planning on killing him, but if it came to that, I wasn't afraid. Not anymore.
The doorbell rang and I bolted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I got to the door just as my mom was about to open it.
"Don't!" I cried, and her hand stopped on the handle.
"What is it?" She asked, concern rippling through her voice.
I thought quickly. "It's a reporter. I don't want to be interviewed."
My mother took in my appearance. I suddenly became aware that she was staring at the baseball bat in my hands. I giggled awkwardly and hid the bat behind my back.
"There a problem?" I asked nervously.
She eyed me one more time before replying, "I'll chase the guy away. Now go upstairs." She turned and opened the front door.
I backed up a few stairs, just enough so that I could see what was going on.
"I'm sorry, Sir" I heard my mother say. "But she's doing her homework right now and she's not to be disturbed. She's on a tight schedule, and if we were to include you, it wouldn't be until next February."
Go Mom! I inwardly cheered. My mom, apparently, was a very good liar.
The man started to protest. "You don't understand. My name is Mr. Johnson, and I represent the local police department, I came here to inform you and your daughter about the ceremony that the department would like to hold in honor of your daughter's courageous act today."
"Oh?" I knew when my mother said that that she was raising her eyebrows. For me, that wasn't a good sign, but it was for Mr. Johnson.
In the end, my mom invited him in, although she still insisted that I was doing my homework and he should really come back later. Mr. Johnson, however, was very persistent. Eventually, my mom called up the stairs for me to come down.
I came, but I was prepared for anything. I had my house key tucked in between my knuckles in case he tried to hurt me, and I had taken a knife that my father had left in his office from a previous late-night snack. I had washed the knife and it was tucked discreetly into my pocket.
"Yes, Mom?" I came down and glared at Mr. Johnson. He didn't even flinch. I took that as a sign that he was expecting me to be hostile, therefore, he was lying. If he had really been representing the police department, he would have been surprised that I didn't seem happy to receive an award.
"Whatever your selling, we don't want any." I said, my voice slightly hoarse because I was afraid for my family.
"Rebecca!" My mother chastised me. "That's no way to talk to our guest. Apologize to Mr. Johnson this instant." She ordered.
I looked at him and said sarcastically, "Sorry for being suspicious of a liar." If looks could kill, we'd both be dead. He was glaring at me just as strongly as I was glaring at him.
"That's all right." Mr. Johnson said, turning to my mother and putting on a plastic smile. Unfortunately, my mother was a regular old typical mother, so she bought the whole thing.
Mr. Johnson stood up. "I have to go anyway." He said. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Lawrence." He said to my mom, who stood up to see him out the door. "You too, Rebecca," he said, turning his plastic smile on me.
Then Mr. Johnson pretended to try to go around me, but he bumped into me.
"Sorry." He apologized. As he passed, a small piece of paper fluttered to the ground. I caught him looking at it, but he quickly turned his eyes away. As he was saying a final goodbye to my mom, I bent down and scooped up the small piece of paper. Quickly, I tucked it into my pocket before my mother could see it. Then the man smiled his plastic smile at my mother and me one last time, and left.
I sighed. I hadn't even realized that I was holding my breath.
"Well," my mother said in a voice filled with disappointment. "I hope your happy now. You just hurt Mr. Johnson's feelings. You better hope that he still wants to give you that award. No one in my family or your father's family has ever gotten an award." Her voice was filled with longing.
"Just because you want me to accept this award, doesn't mean I will. I don't want all the publicity. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have homework to finish." I turned and stomped up the stairs for emphasis on the fact that I 'supposedly' was PMSing, or something. (PMS is usually the excuse my mother comes up with ever time I'm rude or something.)
-
As soon as I was in my room, I pulled out the small scrap of paper and read it. Huh? I thought when I finished reading the note (that's what it was).
All the note said was: inner city. runner's st. warehouse 3. 1'o clock AM. Don't be late.
Did he want me to meet him there? I didn't know the answer, but I would take the chance. And if it turned out that it was all a trap, I'd be ready. No one was going to take Rebecca Lawrence by surprise. No one.