It wasn’t that he wanted more serious crimes in his hometown. The job simply hadn’t fulfilled him from day one. As time went by, he found himself falling further into the trappings of self-analysis. Nights were the worst, when he had nothing but his television to keep him company. The more he allowed himself to delve into the depths of his soul, the more he became aware of some truths.
The most pervasive was his Latin American heritage. It opened the doors to Saint Anselm in New Hampshire, but it had never helped that he was constantly reminded that his college scholarship was one reserved specifically for minorities. Or that Wentworth, McKeegan, and the others insisted on Anglicizing his last name and calling him “Benny”. He hated the name. Was it so hard to just call him “Manny”?
He’d had the opportunity to interview with the FBI during his senior year of college. His teachers assured him he was a sure thing, and that his skill set would lend itself well to the work. But what would have happened when he’d actually have to work? Would he really have passed the FBI entrance exams? Been a good agent in the field? Risen through the ranks? He would have failed eventually, and that would have proven everybody right. He was nothing more than a man who got his opportunities based on affirmative action. He decided not to take the interview and accepted an entry-level position at the New Hampshire State Department of Justice, working as an aide to one of the junior district attorneys. In the five years there, he had never even tried for one of the four promotions that became available. That’s when he began to toy with the idea that he was afraid of failure and made the decision to move back to Sycamore Hills. He thought he was taking a big risk at the time, but now he knew it wasn’t true. He was running back home and hiding where it was safe.
The headlights of the truck shone on his old burgundy mailbox, and the truck slowly climbed the gentle incline up to the garage. The garage door didn’t work, and the garage itself was packed with stuff, so he parked out front and headed inside.
The house wasn’t large, but it was functional and offered a nice view of the lake, which was fed by a small river that flowed through the county. Inside, he had three bedrooms, a full bath, and plenty of room in his living room to fit his sofa and recliner. His landlord had opened up the kitchen a few years before he’d moved in, giving the old mid-century home a more modern flow. Manny liked the house and felt very comfortable there. He was even considering talking to his landlord about purchasing it.
He tossed his keys on the end table and walked toward the couch. He grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and scrolled through the channels to find the ball game. St. Louis was down a run in the seventh, and Manny scoffed as the announcer recounted the two-run lead they’d just given up in the top of the inning. They sure hadn’t looked like the World Series champs of a year ago this season, and Manny suspected there would be no miracle run to the playoffs this year. Shaking his head, he tossed the remote onto the couch and circled around into the kitchen.
Manny opened the refrigerator and stood transfixed, not really looking for anything in particular. His dinner and drinks sat heavy in his stomach, so he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. A cheer erupted from the TV, shaking him out of his thoughts. He closed the door to the refrigerator and peeked around the corner to see two Cardinals trotting around the bases. Manny smiled. That was more like it. Pulling himself back into the kitchen, he decided to go ahead and have a nightcap and went over to the cabinet that held the silver tequila. He filled a glass and swallowed the entire amount before filling it again and carrying it back into the living room.
After taking a tiny sip of the tequila, he placed the shot glass on the coffee table and sat back to enjoy the rest of the game. He was only half watching, though, as he retreated back into his thoughts. Why did he let Wentworth and the others continue to look down on him? Why couldn’t he find satisfaction in what he was doing? Should he try to transfer to the County Sheriff’s Department? Should he pack up and leave Sycamore Hills? He sat and sipped, but he couldn’t see any of the answers, even when looking through the bottom of an empty glass.
Manny stood up, shut off the TV, and walked to the window. In the west, he could see clouds beginning to blot out the night’s sky and dim flashes of heat lightning flaring up here and there. It wasn’t enough to light up the night, and there were no accompanying rumbles of thunder to warn of any summer storm. It was almost as if nature itself was teasing him, promising a change that wasn’t actually going to come.
Manny closed the curtains and slowly shuffled to his room, hoping a new day would bring some kind of change.
TWO
Through the streets of Sycamore Hills, in and out of the glow of the street lights, Ra’ah walked slowly. The air was hot and had a wet tinge to it, filled with the subtle smell of the farms and fields to
