Flip provided him a slurred tutorial of the dashboard gadgets, and within a matter of moments they were heading out of the Cransky’s parking lot.
“Why are you wearing gloves?” Flip suddenly asked.
“I’m used to wearing them from when I’m flying.”
“Cool,” Flip replied, easily impressed. “So does this make me your wingman?”
“Behind every great pilot is an unflappable wingman. But if you are, you’ll need a name.”
“I say you call me Robin. That way we’ll be Batman and Robin.”
He shook his head. “Sorry-already taken. My wingman from Desert Storm goes by Robin. What do you say we call you Pearl Jam?”
Flip actually saluted him. “Pearl Jam reporting for duty, it’s an honor to serve you, Batman.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Pearl Jam. Your first order of business can be to provide me the coordinates of where we are to meet Jim.”
“Don’t mean to correct you, Batman, but it’s actually Tim … with a T.”
More specifically, it was Timothy Kent III, and Batman knew exactly who he was. Tim Kent killed his parents.
They had retired to Redmond almost three years ago, just after their only child had left to join the Air Force. Redmond proclaimed itself to be the “bicycle capital of the northwest,” and his parents took to cycling through the lush hills like natives. Two years to the day, they spent a steamy Fourth of July evening mountain biking along Wright Street. They never saw Tim Kent speed his brand new Nissan Pathfinder around a corner. Batman’s father was killed upon impact. His mother died later that night in a Seattle hospital.
Tim Kent was almost twice the legal limit, following a day of drinking at the lake. He arrived in court with a high-powered attorney purchased by his father, as if it were a graduation gift. He was sentenced to juvenile hall until his eighteenth birthday. Tim spent six months in “juvie” and then walked onto the campus of Gonzaga University with his records sealed. A fresh start that Batman’s parents never got.
Batman was stationed in Germany when he received the life-shattering news. At first it seemed random and mindless. But then a voice informed him that nothing is a coincidence-every action had a reaction that was part of a bigger plan-and this meeting with Flip Tompkins was no different.
As they drove, the two men made idle chitchat about Batman’s military exploits in the Gulf War, which he’d recently returned from.
After finishing another beet, Flip rolled down his window and tossed out the empty can. They drove past Redmond Town Center, which was practically empty due to the holiday. Then the local high school, where Tim Kent allegedly bragged about how he would get off with just a slap on the wrist.
The earlier downpour had tapered to a light mist. Batman knew it was another sign of support. The thinning thunderclouds were symbolic of his personal journey out of the darkness. He upped the vehicle’s speed.
“So what brings you to Redmond?” Flip asked.
“My parents live here. I came to visit them,” he answered. He wasn’t completely lying-he’d visited their gravesite earlier that morning.
The conversation returned to the Pearl Jam concert, and music in general. It was more than Batman ever wanted to know about a rock band, but he continued to act as if he were hanging on every word. He didn’t bother asking questions about Tim Kent-he knew him better than Tim knew himself. The only relevant fact was that he would soon be dead.
Flip cracked open another beer, before providing the directions, “The cul-de-sac is on McPherron Drive. It’s the first right off of Wright Street.”
It was unnecessary. Batman knew Wright Street. It’s where his life changed forever. It’s also where he was called to return, seeking closure. “Is that where Tim will be meeting us?”
“Yeah, he’s gonna be pissed. I told him we’d meet up like twenty minutes ago,” Flip answered, then added, “Sure you don’t want a beer?”
Batman felt rage shoot through his veins. “Do you know that over twenty thousand Americans died last year from drunk drivers?” he barked as he sped the car down Wright Street, the needle on the speedometer racing clockwise.
“In the state of Washington alone, over half the traffic fatalities were alcohol related. Do you know how many ruined lives could be avoided!?”
A mystified look came over Flip’s face. “Sorry, dude, thought you were cool with it.”
As the vehicle tore through a residential neighborhood at sixty-miles-per-hour, Batman pointed to a cassette tape on the floor, marked
“Nirvana,” Flip answered, chuckling at the mispronunciation of the next big thing.
“That’s right-let’s hear it,” Batman belted enthusiastically, as the speedometer neared seventy-five.
Flip rambled about how it was a bootleg tape of the upcoming Nirvana album called Nevermind, which wouldn’t officially be out until September. He talked reverently of a singer named Cobain, claiming he was the next John Lennon. Batman doubted it, but even if Flip turned out to be a prophet, like most prophets, he wouldn’t be alive to celebrate the accuracy of his prognostications.
The Beretta flew through the suburban streets like a fighter jet with a MiG on its tail. Flip unlatched his seat-belt and reached down to pick up the tape off the floor mat.
Batman viewed the boy as he bent over awkwardly to pick up the cassette. Then he slammed the brake, almost smashing his foot through the pedal. The screeching of the tires drowned out the snapping sound of Flip’s neck breaking against the dashboard.
With no time to waste, Batman sped the car again-he was now in a trance-like state. He had already gone from zero to fifty when he turned onto McPherron. The cul-de-sac fast approached-the enemy was in sight.
He immediately spotted his target. Tim Kent had a long, chiseled face and his hair was gelled vertically with stylish sideburns. He stood beside his attractive girlfriend, leaning on a canary-colored Volkswagen Rabbit convertible. They were intently locking lips, but the screech of tires caught his attention.
To his left stood a group of four college-age students who were guzzling beer from plastic cups. One of them yelled out with laughter, “Sounds like Flip’s wasted again!”
The group was the first target. He came at them with such a high speed that their inebriated reflexes didn’t have a chance to react. Bodies flew, and screams filled the misty air. Batman knew he wouldn’t have to go back to finish the job-the group was clustered, which wasn’t a smart military tactic. They didn’t know they were at war.
Without a moment to spare, he locked on his target at twelve o’clock, and launched his car directly at Tim Kent.
Batman savored the brief moment-he’d anticipated it for almost two years. It was the one thing that allowed him to continue on with life. Although, he wished he could have found another way. A way in which he could have made Tim Kent beg for forgiveness as he slowly sucked each last breath from him. But that would have been a logistical nightmare.
The girlfriend screamed in horror-she would be collateral damage-but Kent remained frozen. The trembling fear in his face would have to be satisfaction enough. Batman was convinced he understood why he was about to die.
The impact shook Batman, leaving him momentarily disoriented. But he quickly found his “fighter pilot cool.” He carefully moved Flip’s lifeless body into the driver’s seat and surrounded him with his empty beer cans.
“I told you drinking and driving kills,” he mocked the dead boy. He then scurried into the rain-drenched pine forest that surrounded the cul-de-sac. He thought this would bring closure, but he would find that he was wrong.
Chapter 3
