Breaking Creed

7

Thunder rattled the glass. Creed rolled over to watch the lightning fork through the sky, illuminating the night outside the open window. A breeze brought in the smell of rain. He needed to shut the window before the downpour started, but he closed his eyes instead and he stayed put. Sleep didn’t come easy for him. On the rare occasions when it came at all, it knocked him out completely.

He could hear a dog barking, but his eyelids were too heavy. Nearby an engine rumbled to life. The smell of diesel stung his nostrils. Another flash. His eyelids fluttered, caught a glimpse of blurred headlights, then closed again.

In the back of his mind he remembered how crowded the rest area was. Trucks hummed in back, in their own parking lot, separated from the cars and SUVs. Rain turned the wet, greasy asphalt into streaks of neon red and yellow and orange that danced and moved, the reflection of taillights and running lights coming to life. Creed’s sister, Brodie, had been fascinated with the slimy smears. Leave it to Brodie, she could always see rainbows where the rest of the family saw only dirty pools of diesel. Creed remembered how she pranced from puddle to puddle, making sure she splashed in as many as possible as she ran the short distance from their car to the brick building that housed the restrooms. And although he couldn’t hear her, he knew she was humming or singing the entire way. So happy, so good-natured — traits you’d never guess would be hazards.

“Her feet will be soaking wet,” Creed’s father had grumbled from behind the steering wheel as he watched her.

The game was on the radio. Fourth quarter, only five minutes left, and his team was behind by three.

“Can’t you shut that dog up,” he yelled over the backseat.

That was why Creed hadn’t been able to escort Brodie. He had been told to take care of and shut up their family dog so his dad could at least hear “the frickin’ game.” It was bad enough that they would be driving all night and he would have to listen instead of watch. He was already mad that Creed’s mom had to stay behind for a few extra days to take care of Creed’s grandmother.

Ironically, years later, when Creed would find him with a bullet hole in his temple, Creed would wonder if the football game playing on the big screen in his father’s living room had offered condolence or inspired madness.

But that night at the rest area, in the car with the pitter-patter of rain against the roof and the soft blue glow of the interior lights, there seemed to be nothing wrong with staying in the car while Brodie went all by herself to use the rest area’s bathroom.

Now Creed heard the barking again. From the edge of consciousness he knew he needed to wake up before the dream gained traction. Before it grabbed hold and started to play in slow motion. Before it began to flicker and wrap around his mind while it slowly ripped at his heart.

He felt his body twitch. But his eyes only fluttered, lead shutters refusing to disengage. He knew what came next. What always came next. The dog was warning them. He could hear it barking louder now. Why hadn’t they listened to the dog?

A clap of thunder jolted him awake. Creed sprung up as though someone had connected battery cables to his chest. In fact, his heart throbbed so hard that he rubbed his breastbone, half expecting to find electrodes left behind. There was nothing, not even a shirt.

It took him a minute to realize he wasn’t at a rest area. He wasn’t even in his Jeep. Instead, he was safe and sound in his bed, the flash of lightning revealing pieces of his loft apartment. He looked over at the alarm clock on his nightstand. The digital display had gone dark. The storm had knocked out the electricity again. There was enough tinge of light on the horizon just below the storm clouds to suggest sunrise. Unless he had fallen asleep hard and it was the next night’s sunset. That had happened a few times, when exhaustion took him over so completely that it literally wiped him out for days.

From the foot of his bed Grace glanced up at him.

“I’m okay,” he told her, and the dog plopped her head back down, too exhausted to disagree with him.

He leaned over the edge and saw that Rufus hadn’t budged. The old Lab was hard of hearing but had long ago earned his spot at the side of Creed’s bed. Neither dog stirred as the thunder continued. Which reminded Creed, and he held his breath to listen.

The generator had kicked on. Living in the Florida Panhandle meant dealing with year-round lightning storms. That was the engine hum and the diesel smell he had mistaken for eighteen-wheelers. But there was no dog barking. As real as it seemed, it was only a part of his dream.

The breeze brought in a mist from the open window. Creed pushed himself out of bed to cross the short distance, but instead of closing the window, he let the rain spray his sweat-drenched body as he stared out over the property.

Woods bordered two sides of the fifty-plus acreage that he and Hannah had transformed into an impressive canine training facility. From this angle, even through the trees he could see the main house. It had been a dilapidated two-story colonial when Hannah convinced him they could restore it. All the other buildings on the property had to be bulldozed. Then, one by one, they built what they needed, revising and designing their plan as the business catapulted them into rapid success.

In the beginning it made perfect sense for Hannah and her boys to take the main house, while they used part of the lower level for offices. Creed insisted on a loft apartment above the dog kennels for himself. He told Hannah that he wanted to be close by to protect and care for their most valuable commodity.

Truth was, the dogs were his one constant and reliable comfort in life. And although a loft apartment above the dog kennels sounded odd, Creed had spared no expense. The open floor plan included a high-beamed cathedral ceiling, lots of windows, cherrywood floors, a wall of built-in bookcases, and a gourmet kitchen. Because he was on the road so much of the time, he had tried to create a retreat as much as a home for himself.

Still at the window, Creed noticed that the spray of rain had stopped as the wind decreased. He could see the storm clouds rolling away, the bolts of lightning reduced to flickers. The smudge of daybreak glowed orange. Now he could see the main house lights come on, one by one, while his loft remained dark.

He glanced back at the digital alarm clock, which remained unlit. The good news was that it wasn’t a widespread power outage. The bad news was that the lightning must have zapped the kennels and his loft apartment, again. This was the third time in two months.

Time to call an electrician.

Just as Creed reached for his jeans, he noticed headlights at the end of the long driveway. The vehicle had turned in, but slowed down and then stopped. The driveway was almost a quarter of a mile long, but Creed could see the entire length of it from his perch. He’d purposely made it long to keep them as far off the main road as possible. Sometimes people got lost and used it to turn around. Maybe someone had gotten lost in the storm.

He was about to shrug it off. But the vehicle didn’t move. And then the headlights went out. For some reason the words of Liz Bailey’s father came back to Creed: “Watch your back.”