If I Should Die

SEVEN

Jimmy Benson sat on a bar stool at the Lock amp; Barrel, his draft halfway to his mouth.

I’m a dead man.

He drained the rest of his beer and put down the mug. It hit the counter with a thud. He froze, eyes on the mirror behind the bar, searching for evidence that someone, anyone, was watching him.

The Lock amp; Barrel was the only business in Spruce Lake open past six p.m., the only place to get dinner and a drink and talk. Even on a Wednesday night in a town of 386, the place was nearly half filled with two dozen patrons.

It was soon to be a town of 385, Jimmy thought. Because he was getting out of Spruce Lake tonight one way or the other-on foot or six feet under.

Was everyone looking at him, or was it his overactive imagination?

Reggie, the Lock amp; Barrel’s longtime bartender, gestured toward his empty mug. After his shift, Jimmy usually had three beers, but he’d had only one since he arrived twenty minutes ago. He hadn’t even finished his shift; he’d left sick. After he’d gotten the call about the arson, he knew his nephew was in way over his head. He actually felt sick. But anyone who was watching would only notice he was nervous.

He nodded at the barkeep. “Thanks.” He put a small handful of nuts in his mouth, being as casual as possible as he eavesdropped on Doc Griffin’s conversation with the waitress and two regulars. Not that he had to concentrate; Woody Griffin wasn’t keeping his voice down.

Someone had found her body. Jimmy had heard it on the scanner this afternoon. He wished Woody knew more, because Jimmy had to know how this happened. But then Woody switched topics and talked about the fire and vandalism at the Hendricksons’ place. About how no one wanted outsiders here. The others nodded in agreement.

Jimmy knew the truth. They all knew the truth, but wouldn’t say it aloud. Easier to act like rednecks than criminals.

Jimmy picked up his fresh beer and sipped, leaned back, and saw Gary Clarke in the mirror. Standing across the room, staring directly at him.

Jimmy looked away, but he still felt Gary’s eyes on the back of his head.

The body had been found around noon, and Hendrickson would have immediately called the police. That meant the information had been out there nearly nine hours. Plenty of time for the wrong people to find out that Jimmy hadn’t followed orders. That had to be why Gary Clarke was here.

The creaky front door signaled a new patron. Jimmy glanced discreetly at the mirror to see who entered. His pulse raced.

Shit.

Slipping off the bar stool, he casually walked toward the bathroom. But as soon as the swinging hall doors closed behind him he turned left, into the kitchen.

“What’s up, Jimmy?” Omar Jackson-the cook and only black man in Spruce Lake-smiled brightly.

“Not much.” Unable to fake a smile, he kept walking. He didn’t know if Omar knew what was what, or if he was as ignorant as he pretended. Maybe he feigned ignorance to stay alive.

Or maybe he was neck deep in the same shit Jimmy trudged through.

Avoiding conversation with the cook, Jimmy exited out the back door, then walked briskly around the corner to his truck.

As soon as he slid into the driver’s seat, the bar’s front door opened wide. Three men emerged and headed his way.

Jimmy floored it. No use pretending. They knew he hadn’t made the body disappear. There was no way they’d let him live. They didn’t know why he’d survived this long. It was as if he was made of Teflon; he’d been told that now and again.

He had known the risks when he put Victoria’s body in the mine. He was no saint, but he wasn’t a killer nor could he treat her body like garbage. So what if he’d disobeyed orders. He hadn’t believed she’d ever be found.

Going home would put his nephew at risk. The only way Jimmy could protect his nephew was to disappear.

He sped up, his old truck squealing in protest. He glanced in the rearview mirror.

Gary Clarke’s brand-new black F-250 was gaining on him.

Jimmy floored it. At first, his truck didn’t respond, then it lurched forward as he picked up speed with the decline in the road toward Colton.

He might make it to Colton, but then what? Go to the police? He would have laughed if he wasn’t so terrified. He wasn’t safe in prison or out.

He fumbled with his cell phone and dialed the only person who might be able to help. The only person he might be able to trust.

“Jimmy? You can’t call me. Not now.”

“Help me! Someone found her body! Now Gary and-”

“I can’t help you.”

“You have to! Dammit, you promised to protect me!”

But the line had gone dead.

He dropped his phone, sobs racking his body. His sister had asked him for one thing: to protect her son. The last five years he’d thought he was doing the right thing, keeping their enemies close, doing odd jobs, keeping the kid in school. The kid was going places.

But not if Jimmy couldn’t protect him. The one person who promised to be there wasn’t.

The Colton Reservoir was coming up. Behind him, Gary Clarke was still gaining. If they caught him, it would be a lot more painful than what he planned to do. Maybe he’d survive. Maybe he’d escape.

Speeding up just as he crossed the short bridge, he turned the wheel sharply to the right, using the lip of the walkway to jump the railing. The bottom of his truck scraped the metal, and for a moment he thought his wheels would catch, Gary and his pals would drag him out of the truck and do horrible things …

Then he was up and over, flying in the dark, falling down, hitting the water hard. His head banged against the steering wheel on impact, and the last thing he thought as he drifted into unconsciousness, the water rapidly rising around his legs, was:

I’m sorry, Abigail. I tried my best.