Escapement

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  Escapement: A 7 Hours Novella

  Copyright © 2012 by Rene Gutteridge, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of gun copyright © Zero Creatives/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of bed copyright © Lillian Nelson/SXC. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Edited by Sarah Mason

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, Janet Kobobel Grant, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

  Escapement is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-7484-0 (Apple); ISBN 978-1-4143-7485-7 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-7486-4 (Mobi)

  Contents

  Escapement

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  When you murder someone and want to get away with it, there are some things you should remember. Let me say ahead of time that I am not certain I’m going to need to get away with it. But if I did, here’s what I’d remember to do.

  First of all, grab the wallet. Always grab the wallet. People have scrubbed down entire houses with bleach and vacuumed many a trunk, only to forget the wallet or purse, keys, and cell phone. (Take the battery out of the cell phone first.) Even if you don’t scrub down the house, you still want to go ahead and take these things because when the victim’s personal property is missing, it always adds another element to the investigation. If none of those things are missing, then detectives assume it was some kind of revenge killing or a crime of passion or some such. If they are missing, then they’ve absolutely got to throw robbery, kidnapping, or carjacking into the mix.

  One poor fool murdered his girlfriend because he couldn’t bear to just break up with her like the rest of the world does it. The guy goes through the entire house scrubbing it like it’s got a communicable disease, vacuums, even uses air freshener. He wraps the body in a rug, puts it in the trunk, drives twenty-five miles outside the city limits, dumps the body, comes back and parks the car, wipes it clean, and leaves.

  But he forgets the wallet, keys, and cell phone.

  She would’ve never left the house without those things. So naturally, she never left the house alive.

  Then they go in, find tiny traces of blood (you have to know that you’re not going to be able to mop up all the blood), and the next thing he knows, he’s being interrogated.

  That leads to point number two: If it gets to the interrogation, and it probably will, you’ve got to get yourself together. And by together, I mean fall completely apart.

  Detectives are smart, and they study a lot of human behavior. So if you’re brought in and asked questions about a murder, let your hands shake a little. That’s nerve-racking stuff, man. I mean, innocent or not, if you’ve got two burly detectives asking where you were on Tuesday night at ten, it’s going to rattle you. So if you’re all spa-calm, it’s going to raise a red flag. Also, you need to ask some questions. “What happened?” “Where did this happen?” “When do you think she went missing?” “Were there signs that something bad happened?” See what I’m talking about? If you want to act innocent, then you better start sounding innocent too. Innocent people know nothing about what happened, so they ask a lot of questions. And if you’re really, really innocent, you’re less concerned for yourself and more for whoever is six feet under.

  If you were close to the person but recently broke up . . . whatever leads police to think you might have had something to do with it . . . you better get your distraught on. If your ex was murdered, that’s going to wig you out, you know? Broken up or not. So for crying out loud, act the part.

  Look, you have to be the picture of innocence, and sometimes innocence looks real messy.

  These thoughts were going through my mind on a hot Wednesday in July. I had stopped to take a rest before the second crosswalk that led into the airport. I’d found the only patch of shade within ten feet and staked my ground. A little old lady with a walker looked my way, her beady blue eyes widening as she observed my shade, but I cast her a glare that told her to move on by.

  Within ten minutes, I was pretty sure I could make it, so I kept walking. A taxi honked, probably because I was moving slow. I threw out some words that would get me fined by the FCC if I were a Super Bowl halftime show and kept walking. The truth was that I’d like to see him take me on. I bet I’d leave his bumper with a good dent.

  Once across the street, I stopped and stared down the rotating door. Who came up with this nonsensical way to enter a building, I don’t know, but it terrified me as a child and it still does. I mean, who doesn’t have a memory of a parent grabbing your arm and yanking you in like your life depended on it? Then you’re standing there awkwardly, all six of you shuffling your feet and trying not to touch the four people you don’t know.

  It was now awkward for a whole other reason, and I didn’t have to worry about being with five other people I didn’t know.

  The large sliding door was only twenty feet down the sidewalk, but my knees were killing me. Had to go for it, I decided. You get stuck in one of those rotating doors once and trust me, you’d walk the twenty feet too.

  Inside, the air-conditioning hit me like a back draft. So I stood under the large, loud fan, blocking traffic but not really caring. I was starting to get the belly button ring.

  The only thing that got me moving again was that I noticed there was no line at the ticket counter.

  “Misty” greeted me with the tight smile I was accustomed to.

  “Hi, Misty,” I said with the overly eager, please-like-me smile I was accustomed to. “I’d like to book a flight to Wichita.”

  “Okay,” she said pleasantly, her fingers gliding across the keyboard like there might be a recital and sheet music involved. “Looks like we have one departing in thirty-five minutes.”

  “Yes!” I said, my tone fist-pumping my enthusiasm. “That is perfect. I’m on a tight schedule.”

  “All right. I just need to see your ID and a credit card.”

  I don’t have an actual credit card credit card. But I have a debit card that acts like a credit card when I need it to, except I can’t spend over what I have in the account. Long story that includes my low credit score and a porcelain donkey, but I can fill you in on that later.

  I slid both cards across the counter.

  Then her sparkly eyes fixed intently on me, so intently that I thought she was about to make a pass at me. But I knew better.

  “Mr. . . . Big . . . Ham?”

  “Bigham. One word. Soft on the ham, you see? Almost like um and not so much like pork.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course.” She lowered her voice, but nobody else was in line. “I need to inform you that you’re going to have to buy two seats.”

  “No. No, no. That’s not fair. Four years ago I was topping 480 and I got to Milwaukee just fine, seat belt extender and all. I’m way under that right now, like by fifty.” Okay, I fudged by fifty pounds.

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Listen, I know I’m screaming wide load here, but when I sit, it kind of all smooshes together and goes forward. I won’t lie to you—there’s no way I’m getting the tray do
wn, but I can live with that. And I just thread my fingers together over my belly and I swear I don’t even touch elbows with whoever is next to me.”

  “Sir, please. I’m sorry. It’s policy.”

  I leaned on the counter. “Curious. How do you determine it? Do you eyeball me, do a quick glance and picture me in a seat, or is there training on how to spot the one that won’t fit? Should I hop up here where you weigh the luggage or what?”

  Then, as sudden as a heart attack, tears squirted down her cheeks and she just stared at me like I should offer her some kind of mercy. And I’m a sucker for tears. Can’t stand to see any woman cry. It breaks my heart every time.

  Besides, I thought as I tried to offer her the handkerchief I knew was in my pocket but couldn’t quite get to, what in the world did I have to lose here? I mean, I could buy two, couldn’t I? Why not, right? Give me some elbow room at least. It’d be like flying first class.

  But could I afford it? I had just over nine hundred dollars in the bank.

  I waved my hands at her. “Look, sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t cry, please.”

  She sniffled. “I’m so sorry. I just want to hug you and tell you how great you are. I can see it in your eyes. You’d totally win The Biggest Loser.”

  “I think I’m actually too heavy for it, but there are other shows to be had. For right now, I need to get from Oklahoma City to Wichita. I’ll take two seats.”

  Relief caused every feature in her face to drop a good inch. “Thank you. God bless you, sir.”

  “No problem. Now, what’s it going to cost me?” I didn’t want to buy a one-way ticket. That sets off all kinds of alarm bells with security, and I know they’d be thinking I have a lot of places to hide a bomb. Can you seriously picture them with the wand and the plastic gloves, trying to figure out how to not miss anything?

  “Looks like it’ll be $711.”

  Doable. Would leave me a couple hundred for food and supplies. “Okay.”

  “Per seat. So $1,422.” Her eyebrows rose as she looked at me. “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t have that much.”

  Misty and I stared at each other for a moment. She was on the verge of tears again. I was on the verge of a nasty FCC fine.

  “Listen,” she said. “What would you think about driving?”

  “I don’t have my car. I took a cab here.”

  “You could always rent a car.”

  I blinked. Driving wasn’t my thing. But . . .

  “If you fly, you won’t even get to Wichita until seven o’clock tonight, and you said you were on a time crunch. You could be there in two and half hours if you drove.”

  “Seven? How is that possible?”

  “There’s no direct flight. They take you to Dallas, then back up to Wichita.”

  “That’s ludicrous.” I only had a few hours. I checked my watch. Just under six, actually.

  “My thoughts exactly. But—” she glanced at a fellow ticket agent who’d stepped up to another computer—“it’s my break time. I could walk you down there and help you find something.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course, Mr. Bigham.” She pronounced it like a pro.

  We rode the escalators down together and soon enough I was at the rental car counter.

  Misty turned to me before we stepped up. “You’ve got to splurge and get the Hummer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I drove one once. It’s dreamy.”

  “And roomy.”

  She smiled at me. No, grinned. You know, if everyone was like Misty, I wouldn’t have to make this trip to Wichita.

  I shook her hand. “Misty, lovely meeting you.”

  “You too, Mr. Bigham. Best of luck.”

  I winked at her as she sauntered off, but I wasn’t going to be the one who needed luck.

  I absolutely hate driving, but Misty was right. The Hummer was crazy big and super smooth. It felt like I was piloting a spacecraft . . . which was usually how I felt getting out of bed in the morning, but without the fancy, blue-lit dashboard or power steering.

  I hated when people stared me down in my Hyundai, wondering how I fit in there and was I ever going to get out. Plus, it was always embarrassing to be seen eating and driving. But you know, these same people are texting and driving, so I’d just stare back at them like they were the circus freaks.

  Now, though, I had dark-tinted windows and could do as I pleased. Eat in peace. Except for the first time in literally years, I had lost my appetite.

  So I tried to think about more pleasant things. Like Beth.

  I’d won her over with a made-up word: prediculous. It was predictable and ridiculous combined to perfectly describe our boss at the hospital, where we both worked as nurses. It made her laugh. Eight months later we were married. That was six years ago.

  Now she wanted a divorce, and I know you think it’s because I ballooned up to near five hundred, but not so. We fell on hard times, and Beth’s personality has no wiggle room for hard times. She was babied in her family and I babied her all the way up to the point that I lost my job. Then I dive-bombed into depression, which she worked with me on for two weeks before deciding I was incapable of healing from it.

  I’m habitually late in everything I do. I’m actually going to be late to my own death, but I’ll explain that in a moment.

  Without exception, I arrived at the hospital five minutes late, every day for five years. But because I tend to be a little slow-moving, I always left the hospital fifteen minutes late, so technically I was a lot of bang for the buck. Still, when I got fired and they cited the habitual lateness, I knew it was a lie because nobody cared, even once, to mention it to me before that day.

  I was fired for the more obvious but less socially acceptable reason: I was obese. Morbidly obese. I’d crossed from just obese into the morbidly obese category the February after Beth and I got married. She’s a great cook—what can I say? You’d think morbid obesity would be like three hundred pounds over, but it’s just one hundred. You’d also think someone might come up with a better term than morbid. I mean, if those are my choices, I think I’d rather you just call me fat. Throw in morbid, and that conjures up images like “diseased,” “ghoulish,” “pathological,” “abhorrent,” and “detestable.” There are a lot more definitions in my thesaurus, but I stopped when I got to “unhealthful” because I figured that was the synonym they were looking for. Still, they could’ve done better.

  On the other hand, as my own personal doctor can attest to, that term certainly has shock value, which is what every doctor needs when delivering mundane health news. If they’d call high blood pressure something like “repugnantly obscene blood pressure,” more people might stay on their meds.

  But Dr. Palmer didn’t need any fancy terms to let me know things were going downhill for me. Couldn’t imagine how my innards were holding up (not well, according to Doc), but outwardly, there were enough signs. When I could no longer put on my own shoes, that was a new low.

  But back to how I knew I’d be late for my own death. Here’s where I am going to lose most of you. And listen, I don’t blame you. I really don’t. What I’m about to tell you is pure nonsense, and I’m not even talking about the murder that’s going to happen. I’m talking about what led to my driving a Hummer to Wichita.

  It happened literally an hour and a half ago. I was thinking of leaving the house to run a few errands—collect my unemployment, meet with my lawyer about trying to stop this divorce—when a man appeared in my doorway just as I opened the door to check the temperature outside. I’d heard no one come to the door, and my dogs, who bark when the wind shifts direction, did not make a sound . . . even after I’d opened the door and he was clearly visible.

  As soon as our eyes met, the hairs on my neck stood straight up. I looked down at Meatloaf, my pug, and he walked by like nothing was happening.

  The man was dressed in a suit that had an uppity sheen to it. He wore a trilby and wore it well. His hands were i
n his pockets, and the right one was fiddling with something, maybe loose change.

  “Hello, Mattie.”

  Nobody has called me Mattie since tenth grade, when Michael Winerod tried it and got knocked to the floor in the boys’ bathroom. Everyone who knows me knows those are fighting words. I prefer Matthew but certainly don’t throw punches if hew is left off. I politely indicate my preferences and nobody makes the mistake twice. At least to my face.

  “It’s Matthew. Nice trilby.”

  “Most people think it’s a fedora.”

  “Most people don’t know much.” I stepped forward to block the doorway of my condo. And I do mean block it. I have to turn sideways to get out. I have naturally broad shoulders that have just expanded with time. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Constant.”

  “I thought Mattie was bad. Short for Constantine?”

  “No. Thomas Constant.”

  “Awesome. Well, listen, whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. And just a tip here, but you’re kind of in what’s considered the universal personal space of someone you don’t know. I mean, I might buy a magazine, except I can see your pores and now I’m distracted. A couple of steps back, and with that suit and your low, smooth voice, I am pretty sure you’ll be able to sell Cosmopolitan to my eighty-year-old neighbor, Beatrice. She’s two doors down. But I have to run.”

  He didn’t move. “I have selected you for an experiment.”

  “An experiment. If it’s like a free bariatric medical study, I’m in. Otherwise, no. Please move.”

  He didn’t. But he did pull a watch from his pocket, the old kind made from real silver. It had the slightest of ticking sounds to it, yet it thumped in my ear like the midnight bass beat of the neighbor above me.

  “Let me explain it a different way. I’m Time personified. No, in case you were wondering, I’ve not been around forever. Only since I was created. Just like you.”

  I looked into his eyes, a swimming motion of blues and grays, circled by black. His eyelashes and eyebrows were dark, too, but he otherwise had no hair on his face.

  “Good try,” I said, gesturing to myself, “but I created this big blooming onion, according to my doctor, therapist, and butcher, so I guess we don’t have much in common after all. Step aside.”