The sound of that voice made Jordan’s stomach lurch. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe—or move.
“You bet we carry sunscreen,” Rosie was saying. “Let me show you….”
“We’re going sailing this afternoon,” the man continued. “Sometimes you can really get burned on these cool, overcast days—”
Jordan listened to the voice and to the man’s footsteps as he followed Rosie down the next aisle. Bent over by the refrigerator, Jordan started to shake violently. The jug of orange juice slipped out of his hand. It crashed on the wood floor. Glass shattered, and a puddle of orange juice bloomed across the aisle. Shards of glass were everywhere.
“Are you okay, hon?” Rosie called to him.
Jordan couldn’t answer her. He stood paralyzed in the middle of the puddle. Splattered orange juice soaked the legs of his jeans and his black Converse All Stars. He gaped at the man one aisle away, and they locked eyes. Jordan thought he was going to vomit.
“Hey, Mr. Destruct-o,” Rosie called, “what are you doing over there? Jordy, are you tearing the place down or what?” She waddled around the corner and balked at the mess on the floor. Then she gazed at Jordan. “Hon, you’re as white as a sheet….”
Numbly, he turned to her. He was still shaking. “I—I’m sorry, Rosie. I—don’t feel well.” For a moment, he thought he’d pissed in his pants, but then he realized it was orange juice. As he bent down to pick up some of the glass, everything around him started spinning.
“Leave that,” he heard Rosie insist. Rushing to his side, she took the bags of chips and Cheetos from him and set them on the counter. She quickly led Jordan down the aisle toward the door. “Careful of the juice on the floor, don’t slip now. Let’s get you some fresh air….”
As they passed the older man, Jordan couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t get out of that store fast enough. He broke away from Rosie and ran out the door. He raced around the corner—to the shaded side of the store so he could throw up without anyone seeing him. Over by the doors to the cellar storage space, he braced one hand on the wall.
“Sweetie, should I call somebody?” Rosie asked, coming around the corner. She stopped a few feet away from him.
“No, it’s okay,” Jordan managed to say. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Rosie. Could you—could you please just leave me alone for a few minutes?”
She backed away. “Give me a yell if you need anything. You hear me?”
He nodded. Rosie patted her orange hair and then headed back around the corner.
Jordan took a few deep breaths. He told himself he wasn’t going to puke. And he wasn’t going to start crying either. No, he had to keep his cool—and figure out what to do. Yet he was still shaking. His throat began closing up—and the tears streamed down his face. He slumped back against the cedar shingle wall and let go. He couldn’t stop sobbing.
Then after a few moments, he became enraged.
He couldn’t believe how he was acting—like a frightened little boy.
Wiping his face and nose with his shirtsleeve, Jordan paced back and forth by those cellar doors. He needed to
A metal object on the ground by a woodpile caught Jordan’s eye. It resembled the head of a spiked rake. Part of it was rusted, but the prongs were still sharp and shiny—as if someone had recently sharpened them. Jordan picked it up and wandered toward the gravel lot in front of Rosie’s. He paused behind the thick trunk of a tall evergreen.
The only other car in the lot—besides his own Civic—was a black BMW. Jordan took a long look at the car’s tires. Then he examined the strange spiked object again.
He knew what he had to do.
That son of a bitch wasn’t getting away, not this time.
In the distance ahead, he watched the BMW listing to one side as it hobbled onto the gravel shoulder of Carroll Creek Road.
Jordan pulled over as well, leaving about a block-long gap between them. There weren’t any other cars in sight. He imagined the guy looking in his rearview mirror and barely making out the Honda Civic down the road behind him. He hadn’t stepped out of his BMW yet.
“Your cell phone doesn’t work around here, asshole,” Jordan whispered, his voice shaky. “Never mind trying to call anyone. Just get out of the car. See what the problem is….”
After setting the pronged device under the BMW’s rear passenger-side tire, Jordan had hidden behind a tree on the shady side of the store. He’d watched the man emerge from Rosie’s with a small plastic grocery bag and then climb inside his car. The spiked device remained on the ground while the BMW pulled out of the lot. Jordan couldn’t be certain if it had punctured the tire.
Once the BMW disappeared around a bend, Jordan retrieved the device and hurled it into the woodpile at the side of the store. He hurried up to the front porch. “Sorry, I’m leaving you with a real mess, Rosie!” he called through the screen door. “I still don’t feel so hot. I’ll be back to pay for the orange juice later….”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, Jordy,” she called back. “I hope you feel better!”
He barely heard her as he rushed toward his Civic. Jumping inside, he gunned the engine and peeled out of the lot—not slowing down until he’d finally spotted the BMW up ahead in the distance.
It couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile before the car had started listing to the right.
Now Jordan watched and waited inside his idling Civic. He nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d parked in the sun at Rosie’s lot earlier, so the car was hot, and it smelled of orange juice, sweat, and birthday cake. Jordan cracked a window. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, eying the crippled vehicle ahead. “Get out and look at the goddamn tire….”
He didn’t want anyone else coming along to help the guy. Jordan wasn’t sure yet exactly what he was going to do, but whatever it was, he didn’t want any witnesses.
At last, the driver’s door opened.
Biting his lip, Jordan watched the man step out of the BMW, then slam the door shut. He was wearing sunglasses. He stomped toward the back fender and checked the flat tire on the rear passenger side. He kicked at the gravel and then treaded back to the driver’s door. Opening it, he reached into the front for something on the dashboard. The trunk popped halfway up. The man moved around toward the trunk, but suddenly stopped and stared down the road.
Jordan shrank back in his seat. He couldn’t discern the man’s expression—and his eyes were hidden by his sunglasses—but Jordan was almost certain the guy was glaring at him.
Finally, the man turned and opened the trunk lid all the way. Taking off his jacket, he draped it over the edge of the trunk, and then he began to unload the spare tire and the tools.
Jordan waited a few more minutes. He found it tough to breathe right, and his heart was racing. He felt a little sick again. Glancing around to make certain no other cars were coming, he slowly pulled onto the road. He didn’t have to drive far before veering back onto the shoulder and crawling to a stop behind the disabled BMW.
The man had just set the spare tire and the last of the tools on the ground. He stopped and took off his sunglasses to stare at the Honda Civic. He reached for his jacket again.
Jordan swallowed hard and then climbed out of the car. He worked up a friendly smile and tossed him a little wave. “Need any help?” he asked.
The man didn’t return the smile. He squinted at Jordan. “Say, weren’t you in the store earlier? Are you following me or something?”
Jordan stopped in his tracks. He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, I was at the store, but I—I’m not following you, no.”
Holding on to his jacket, the man patted it down for something in the pockets. “Well, this is a pretty weird coincidence. Something just like this happened yesterday. Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” Jordan replied, moving a step closer. “I’m Brad—Brad Reece.” It was the name of his English Lit teacher.
The man found whatever he’d been searching for in the jacket’s pockets, but he didn’t take it out yet. “If you weren’t following me, what were you doing parked back there?”
Jordan shrugged. “Oh, well, huh, I thought you might be in trouble or something. There isn’t a lot of traffic on
