Chapter 2
— BACKSTORY —
He almost didn't stop.
Time had gotten away from him. Again. One minute, he was finishing up the grading of today's test papers from Math 312, and deciding that it was still early enough to work just a little on cognitive emergence before he headed home. He was trying to do more of his work at the office, and less in the garage. He knew it worried and frustrated his father when he would disappear in there for hours, and even Charlie had been feeling the need lately to compartmentalize his life a little more.
Since Amita had left, accepting the Harvard offer, Charlie had spent some time thinking about how "the work" was overwhelming his life — and the lives of those close to him. He needed to set some boundaries, or his father's greatest fear would turn out to be a prophecy. Charlie would wake up one day, 85, covered with chalk, and alone.
This was only a step. Work should be work, and home should be home. Yet it was unbelievable how difficult it was. He'd thought he would get this part under control before he set some more goals, but so far all it was doing was making his days longer. He still worked just as long — now, he just had to drive home, afterwards.
He sighed as he checked the digital time display on the dash. 11:30. Not really that late — why did it feel so late? Probably had something to do with leaving the house at 6:30, without breakfast, and then skipping both lunch and dinner. Lunch hadn't really been his fault — it was the only time one his students could come in for an advisor appointment to work on next semester's schedule. And dinner? Well, he had talked to his Dad around 7 and promised to stop for milk…and then it was 11. Who knew?
He sighed again and pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store half a mile from home. He thought about claiming he forgot — that would be believable enough — but his Dad had been fighting a cold the last few days, and he shouldn't go out in the early morning air to get the milk Charlie forgot; and it was a certainty that he would. So Charlie pushed open the glass doors and headed for the cold case, barely registering the fact that everyone in the store seemed to be bunched in the same corner, and they were all staring at him.
He grabbed the milk and headed for the counter.
A stocky man somewhat shorter than himself bumped him hard as he pushed past him to the door. "Idiot," he snarled. "I told you to lock the door."
Charlie dropped his jug of milk on the counter and got out his wallet, not even looking directly at the clerk until he had a 5-dollar-bill in his hand.
When he did, the man behind the counter smiled at him. Tall, sandy hair…gloves? Inside the store? In April?
"If I had locked the door," the clerk said, "it would be a dead give-away that something was going on in here." Charlie focused on the semi-automatic pistol that suddenly appeared in the clerk's hand, saw him wave it toward the crowd in the corner. "Please join the others," he said, still smiling, and Charlie realized with a start that he was talking to him. "Elvis — you know what to do. Encourage this guy — and all the rest of them."
"SHIT!" the venom drew Charlie's attention back to the shorter man at the door. How had he missed that handgun, before? The man quickly turned a key in the lock and hustled back toward the counter. Charlie saw pulsating red lights in the distance. "Asshole must've hit the silent — cops are here already!" He shoved Charlie roughly toward the grouping in the corner. "Get!" Charlie got, hearing the arguments behind him in the haze of terror.
"Whatchoo calling me by name, for, Wiener?"
"Come on, El. We're not even wearing masks. It's not like we're leaving any witnesses."
Another sudden push at his back shoved Charlie into a man his father's age, who reached out a hand to steady him. He thought of Alan, waiting for milk and an absent-minded professor at home, and his throat closed up.
"Everybody in the walk-in, please." The taller man's voice was still pleasant, non-threatening…almost friendly. When he had herded his hostages, he smiled at their terror. ""Kneel on the floor. Semi-circle, backs to the door."
Charlie looked at the faces around him. Five of them, besides him. The old man on his right. He helped him lower to the floor. Two terrified teenagers on his left, a boy and a girl, dressed up. Must be out on a date. Then, a middle-aged woman, holding the hand of a young boy, only about 10. Charlie tried to smile at him reassuringly. The boy looked up at him with frightened eyes.
"What're we gonna do n…" Elvis' question was interrupted by a rattle at the front door, and Charlie ducked his head in terror at the sounds of rapid gunfire and breaking glass that followed. Absolute silence, punctuated only by muted breathing, and the sobs of the child, now cowering in his mother's side.
"Guess you showed them," remarked the taller of the two, and Elvis snarled.
"Won't try and come in here, again, will they genius?"
"Probably not. I saw that cop drip blood all the way back his car."
Elvis sounded a little less sure as he spoke this time. "So what now?"
His tall friend was unperterbed. "Well, I'd expect they're gonna try to contact us. Deal for the hostages."
"We can't let 'em go, they've seen us?"
"Calm down, Elvis. We'll deal. Doesn't mean we'll keep our end of the bargain. We'll use 'em to get outta here — and then we'll kill 'em, just like we planned."
The store telephone rang. There was an extension just outside the cooler, so the ring was loud, and Charlie jumped, felt the teenager next to him do the same thing.
"Ah. Bet that's our negotiator, now, El." Charlie heard retreating footsteps. The phone continued to ring as he heard the tall man's voice again. "Y'all just don't even have a dream about moving. Elvis is covering you, and I do believe the boy has a hair trigger."
Charlie swallowed hard as the phone was finally picked up. "Good evening," said Sandy Hair. "What can I do for you fine folks tonight?"
