The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 109

        

The next memory feels less like a movie. More like a painting. I'm at an art exhibit. Stare at three coffee mugs on the wall. Each one has "Seriously!?" printed on it in bold, black letters. They're Joe's mugs. Won them from a TV game show.

Two mugs rest in the hands of Joe and Elma inside a pair of coffins twisting their way into my gut. The third mug dangles off the pinkie of my father.

I killed Joe and Elma. And I may as well have killed my father.

Guilt swallows my gut. Makes me feel hollow. Sucks at the backside of my skin. Pulls it close. Like my outsides are folding into my insides.

It's my fault.

I should've warned my father.

I shouldn't have killed Joe.

I shouldn't have killed Elma.

Now I know why I had a hard time remembering these things. My mind protected itself. Good reason, too. I want to vomit.

I'm back at the RV now. Look out the window. The shadow people have turned back into guards. One of them makes his way toward the RV door.

One other thing I know. I killed those oil workers, too. My fate is sealed. At best, I'll end up in prison. At worst, I'll wind up dead tonight.

I think about my choices. They're only illusions. I know what's going to happen.

I walk to the RV door. I'll leave. Give the guards a fight. Hopefully find Sam before she's torn to pieces. Or maybe she'll find me first, turn the whole damsel-in-distress bullshit on its end.

I ball my right hand into a fist. Then do a silent count.

One.

Two.

Three.

I open the door. Step out into the night. Feel the invisible hand of the wind push me forward. What I see vacuums the air from my lungs. In front of me isn't a guard.

It's Sheriff Red.

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