Four Blind Mice

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The following morning, Thomas Starkey got a clear picture of just how far things had gone for him. The clarifying incident took place less than two miles from his house in North Carolina.

He had stopped at the local strip mall for copies of USA Today and the Rocky Mount Telegram, plus some raisin cinnamon bagels from the NY Style deli. It was raining hard that morning and he stood with the newspapers and warm bagels under the overhang at the mall, waiting for the downpour to slow.

When it finally did, he started to wade through deep puddles toward his Suburban. As he did so, he spotted a couple sloshing toward him across the parking lot. They had just gotten out of an old blue pickup and they'd left the headlights on.

“Hi, excuse me. Left your lights on,” Starkey called as they came forward. The woman turned to look. The man didn't. Instead, he started to talk, and it was clear he had a speech impediment. "Wir frum San Cros head'n La'nce.

Forgath muh wuhlet n'mah pantz..."

The woman cut in. “I'm awful sorry to bother you. We're from Sandy Cross goin' to Laurence,” she said. “So embarrassing. My brother left his wallet in his other pants. We don't even have money for gas to get back home.”

“Kin you hep's?”asked the sputtering male.

Starkey got the whole thing immediately. They'd left the goddamn truck lights on so he could be the one to make the first verbal contact, not them. The man's speech impediment was a fake and that's what really did it to him. His son Hank was autistic. Now these two shit heels were using a fake handicap as part of their cheap con to get money.

Swiftly, Starkey had his handgun out. He wasn't sure himself what was going to happen next. All he knew was that he was really pissed off. Jesus, he was steamed.

“Get on your knees, both of you,” he yelled, and thrust the gun into the male's unshaven, miserable excuse for a face. “Now you apologize, and you better talk right or I'll shoot you dead in this fucking parking lot.”

He struck the kneeling man in the forehead with the barrel of his gun.

“Jesus, I'm sorry. We're both sorry, mister. We jus' wanted a few bucks. Don't shoot! Please don't shoot us. We're good Christians.”

“You both stay on your goddamn knees,” Starkey said. “You stay right there, and I don't want to see you around here again. Ever, ever.”

He put his gun back in his jacket as he stomped off toward his car. He got to the Suburban and thanked God his teenage daughter was listening to rock music and not watching what was going on in the parking lot. Melanie was off in her own little world as usual.

“Let's skedaddle home,” Starkey said as he scrunched down into the front seat. “And Mel, could you turn that damn music up?”

That was when his daughter looked up and spotted the couple kneeling in the lot. “What's the matter with those two?” she asked her father. “They're like, kneeling in the rain.”

Starkey finally managed a thin smile. “Guess they just been saved, and now they're thanking the Lord,” he said.