-- DAN
CHAPTER 15
Nathan Pittman made the turn out of his subdivision and drove away from his home, slowly and more or less aimlessly. He liked to drive at night, by himself. It helped him clear his thoughts.
Nathan owned a 1972 Dodge Dart Swinger, which had originally been a bland beige-green with a white vinyl top, spotted with rust and mildew. Nathan had had the car painted “Matador Red” and replaced the white vinyl with black. The vinyl interior remained beige-green. Nathan referred to the car as “having character.”
He pulled into a Jiffy Mart two miles from his house and parked next to the pumps, but kept the car running for a couple of minutes and remained in the seat, eyes closed. The last few seconds of an old grunge metal song ground its way out of the custom-installed speakers. When the song ended Nathan clicked the stereo off and got out of the car.
The night had turned foggy and cool, almost cold; the Georgia fall was coming in early this year. Nathan popped the trunk open, took out a five-gallon gasoline can, and unscrewed the cap. He clacked the pump lever over a quarter turn and pulled the nozzle out of its slot. The metal felt cool and damp.
Nathan popped the gas cap loose, set it on the car’s roof, and stuck the pump nozzle into the gas can. The Dart took leaded gasoline, which was no longer available as far as he knew, at least not any place accessible. So he filled the five-gallon can, then began to straighten up to get the bottle of lead additive out of the trunk.
At the moment his eyes rose above the Dart’s rear window frame, something inside the store caught his attention. He stood still and stared through the glass.
Nathan had excellent eyesight. Years before, as a Boy Scout, he’d gone for a physical before a trip to summer camp. The technician administering the vision test actually got excited by Nathan’s results and made him repeat the procedure.
“You’ve got good eyes, man,” the tech finally said, respectfully. “Take care of them.”
Now those eyes picked out a movement inside the store, something that shouldn’t be there, and Nathan’s heart suddenly began whirring in his chest.
A tall, gaunt man in a camouflage hunting jacket and a red toboggan cap stood at the counter opposite the clerk, a twenty-year-old girl named Cindy.
Nathan was pretty sure he’d just seen a knife in the man’s hand.
When he realized he was doing nothing but crouching and staring, Nathan tried to look busy. He bent down behind the car and pretended to do things with the bottle of additive and the gas can, but he kept his head craned back, and watched the store through the Dart’s windows.
Nathan knew the clerk’s name was Cindy only because he’d read her name tag one of the other times he’d stopped there for gas. She was a slender, pretty blonde girl, a bit too heavy on the make-up, maybe, but still sort of attractive. Not that she’d shown any interest in him at all. He watched intensely, and didn’t blink even when his eyes began to burn. He saw Cindy’s shoulders move as she handed something to the man at the counter. Cigarettes? A magazine? A box of condoms? Nathan kept watching, and saw her shoulders move as she gave him something else. Again. And then again.
The man glanced out the window, at the Dart. It occurred to Nathan that his car was the only one there, so the man must have been looking at him. As he watched, the man gestured, and light flashed off the blade of a knife. Clear as day.
This is it! Much sooner than he’d expected, but here it was. He focused on slowing his breathing as he opened the driver’s-side door and pulled out his book bag. He slung it over one shoulder, left the gas can on the pavement, pushed the gas cap back into place, and walked in what he hoped was a casual manner around the side of the store, to the restrooms. He didn’t turn his head to look in the window on his way past, but he could see the man there out of the corner of his eye.
When he got around to the side of the building, Nathan stopped, pressed his back to the white-painted cinderblock wall, and unzipped his bookbag with shaky hands.
Nathan went over the moves in his head as he pulled the mask out. The man inside was most likely not a trained knife fighter, and would come at him slashing. He envisioned the man, arm raised high, bringing the knife down toward his face.
Nathan rolled the nylon hood up, tugged the mask down as far as his eyebrows, then remembered his rings and stopped to take them out.
He knew the moves. He’d rehearsed them time and again at the dojo, with a partner and a practice knife. The mask was smooth and cool on his skin as he gave it its final adjustments, and it didn’t impair his vision at all. Looking down, he took in his combat boots, black jeans, black T-shirt and blue-and-red plaid overshirt, and decided he looked like a high school student with a funny mask on. Pulling off the overshirt helped; he was all in black now, just like him. Just like the Redeemer. Goosebumps raised on Nathan’s arms in a sudden chill, and when he heard the door of the store open, his heartbeat kicked all the cold out of him.
Nathan came around the corner and dropped into stance, his eyes fixed on the tall man, who still stood half in and half out of the store, holding a large brown paper bag. A glance confirmed Nathan’s suspicions; a couple of twenties stuck out of the bag, one from the top and one through a two-inch tear in its side.
The man met Nathan’s eyes —
— and Nathan couldn’t decide what to do.
For an awful moment he expected the man to laugh at him, immediately recognize him as a skinny teenager in a weird mask. The tall man’s mouth did open, but Nathan didn’t want to hear anything he might have to say, and he screamed, “That’s it, dirtbag, I’m taking you down!” and charged.
In the next two seconds, as he ran, a moment of stunning clarity came over him: he wasn’t a masked crime fighter. He was a high school student, nothing more. He had no business wearing a stupid Halloween mask, shouting bad action movie dialogue. He had no business pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
The realization came too late. The tall man pulled a revolver out of his jacket and shot Nathan three times in the chest.
AUTHOR'S NOTES FOLLOW IN THE COMMENT SECTION.
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3 comments:
Tonight's another short chapter, published about two hours late because, well, I lost track of time.
This is one of the more important events in the book, at least as far as Matt's public perception goes, and I think it holds up pretty well. My biggest concerns here are with possible anachronisms, or at least things extremely unlikely to be encountered in 2009.
The Dodge Dart Nathan drives was my first car, beige-green and "matador red" and everything. When Dad gave it to me (complete with a pseudo-caveat of "You sure you WANT this thing?") I was all of seventeen, which would have made that about 1988, back when some cars still took leaded gasoline and it was still an option at the pumps. These days I'm not sure whether the Dart would be considered an antique or just an old piece of junk it would be terrifying to ride in, and I have no idea whether or not ANY cars still take leaded. Time for more research.
Anyway. Coming up: another long chapter, in which Matt and Diedra's second date ends with an unexpected trauma.
Nope. They don't sell leaded gas anymore. That's good for the environment, bad for engine life. Lead is an EXCELLENT lubricant.
I doubt that very many people at all would know that the Dart took leaded gas. That shouldn't really be important. And there are still quite a few vehicles on the road that have 'character', so don't worry about it.
His reactions are spot-on, from what I remember about being that age. The lead-up, the characterization to that point, all of it fits with his zeal to be part of the vigilante phenomenon.
But three to the chest? That's gotta hurt. The gun was a revolver, caliber unspecified, so it could have been anything from a .22 to a .454 Casull. (I'm betting against the latter, as it would be unusual for someone packing that much heat to fire three times.) If a small caliber, Nathan might live. Otherwise, no chance.
I don't care much for the character Nathan and his teenage angst; so good riddance! Besides, Nathan can do more for the story by dying as an "imitator of the masked vigilante" because that would logically cause the cops to turn up the heat on Matt's nocturnal activities.
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