A noise.
I heard something outside. A thump, a bump, something.
Maybe it was just a car door opening and closing.
But if I could hear it, it probably wasn’t one of the neighbors. It had to be someone in my driveway, or out front of my house.
I went down the stairs, trying not to make any sounds of my own, and was getting ready to peek out the front window when the doorbell rang.
My heart jumped.
I went to the door, peered through the window at the side. A man was standing there, holding something boxy-about the size of a car battery-in his right hand. I threw the deadbolt, opened the door.
“Mr. Blake,” the man said.
“Mr. Fletcher,” I said.
“You remembered,” he said.
“I never forget someone who uses a test drive to deliver manure.”
“Yeah,” Richard Fletcher said, and extended the arm that was holding the package. I could see now that it was a six-pack of Coors, in cans.
I accepted the package. The cans were warm to the touch, and he said, “First time I came by, I’d just come from the store, and they were cold. But they’ve warmed up since then.”
“You’ve been by before?” I said.
“A couple of times, earlier in the day,” he said. “I figured out your address from the card you gave me. Matched the home number to an address in the phone book.”
“You might as well come in,” I said, and opened the door wider.
I led him into the kitchen, motioned for him to take a seat, and took out two cans. I tossed him one, cracked the tab on mine, and sat down opposite him.
We both took a sip of beer.
“It would have been better cold,” he said.
“Yeah, well,” I said.
He nodded. Finally, he said, “I’m not really in the market for a new truck.”
“I figured.”
“I promised a guy I’d deliver him some manure, but then my truck wouldn’t work. He was promising me forty dollars.”
“Sure,” I said, taking another sip of the Coors.
“I didn’t have money to rent a truck,” Fletcher said. “And there wasn’t anybody I could borrow one off of.”
“Sure,” I said.
“So,” Fletcher said, “that’s why I did it.”
I nodded.
“Next time,” he said, “I could try the Toyota dealer.”
I smiled. “I’d be grateful.”
He returned the smile. “So, that’s what I came by to say.” He struggled a moment. “Sorry,” he said. “I never meant any harm.”
I took another sip of the warm beer. “What’s your daughter’s name?” I asked.
“Sofia,” he said.
“That’s a pretty name,” I said.
We each took another sip of our beers.
“I should be going,” he said. He looked down at the can. “I don’t think I can finish this. I used to be able to sit down and drink half a dozen of these, but now it’s all I can do to finish one.”
I got up and walked with him to the door, followed him outside to the driveway. We stopped briefly behind the CR-V. I stuck out my hand, and he took it. We shook.
“When I win the lottery, I’ll buy a car off ya,” he said.
“Sounds fair,” I said.
As I turned to go back into the house, there was a distant squeal of tires, the gunning of a car engine.
The sound got louder. Someone was coming up the street very, very fast.
Just as I turned to look, there was a popping noise. Before Fletcher came at me, I caught a glimpse of a van barreling up the street.
As Fletcher took hold of me around the waist and pulled me down onto the cool grass, I heard more pops, then glass shattering.
“Head down!” Fletcher barked into my ear.
I managed to turn my head toward the street, caught another glimpse of the van as it sped off.
Once the van was gone, Fletcher got off me. I stood up, saw that the back window of my car had been shot out.
“I’d been thinking maybe the beer wasn’t enough,” he said, “but now I definitely think we’re even.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I RAN INTO THE HOUSE TO CALL THE POLICE. When I came back out, Richard Fletcher was down at the bottom of the driveway, only a few feet away from his yellow Pinto. I had to run to catch up to him before he turned the key.
“Where are you going?” I asked as he rolled down the window.
“Home,” he said.
“The police are on their way,” I said. “They’ll want to talk to you. You’re a witness.”
“I didn’t see nothin’,” he said. “I’ve got enough problems getting by and raising my girl without getting dragged into whatever mess you’re in. If you tell the police I was here, I’ll deny it.”
He turned the key. The engine wheezed three times before it turned over. He gave me a final nod and drove off down Hill Street, the Pinto sputtering and gasping.
IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE THE STREET looked like a cop convention. At least a dozen cars out front of the house, rotating roof lights casting a strobing glow on the houses and trees. Farther up the street, a news crew van. Neighbors were milling about, talking in hushed tones to one another, trying to figure out what had happened while the police strung yellow tape around the scene.
They were roaming all over the inside of the house, too. They knew their way by now.
Standing out front of the house with me, Kip Jennings said, “So you’re standing out here talking to who again?”
“Richard Fletcher,” I said. “He lives on Coulter.”
“And where’s he?”
“He went home.”
“This guy saves you from someone doing a drive-by, and then he just goes home.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“What was he doing here in the first place?”
“He dropped by with a peace offering,” I said. “He took a pickup out on a test drive, used it to deliver manure. I called him on it, and he came by tonight with a six-pack of Coors. The drive-by happened as he was leaving.”
“He set you up?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. He saved me. If he hadn’t tackled me, I’d be dead now.” I
