Equity

Chapter 1

John W. Sampo, a.k.a. Jack Sampson, age 43, was dreaming. Beads of sweat gleamed on his forehead, just above the rapidly moving orbs under his eyelids.

"Come on, hurry up!" his dream self said to the man behind the jewelry counter. "Just the good stuff and no tricks." The store owner, though desperately frightened, was trying to comply as best he could, as he shakily swept the diamond rings from the top shelf into the brown paper bag. "Now the pearls," Sampo ordered, pointing to the middle display shelf with the barrel of his gun. "No! Leave the cheap crap," commanded Sampo, waving away the imitation pearl necklaces at the rear of the case. "Now, open that register, and remember what I said."

The store owner turned the key in the money drawer, as his other hand slipped to the side of the cash register. Sampo caught the movement.

"Why you little shit. You just had to be a hero, didn't you? You pressed the alarm button."

"No, no!" The man went very pale, and seemed that he couldn't catch his breath. "I-I-wasn't...I—"

"Don't give me that, asshole. You watch too much television. You know what happens to heroes in real life? They get killed, that's what."

"No. Oh, please! I've got a wife and kids. Just take the money, but please, don't shoot me. If you leave now they won't catch you, and I won't say any—" The bullet caught him square in the chest, leaving only a tiny hole. His eyes got very wide, and his mouth made little gulping motions like a fish in a tank, as the blood welled up in his throat and spread over his tie and down the front of his white shirt. He reached out to Sampo with both arms, as those that are dying are wont to do, as if their murderers can somehow undo what they know cannot be corrected. Sampo just smiled.

The smile on the dreaming man's face was gradually exchanged for compressed lips and clenched jaw, as he re-lived his capture and arrest. The days of endless questioning. The trial. The jury foreman reading—guilty. The sentence—life—no chance of parole. The last few years swimming by—a gray curtain of futile appeals—while he waited, hope dwindling.

Then, abruptly, the man's features relaxed, his face—serene. He looked like any mother's son, sleeping there. One could almost see the child in the man. Almost.

#

He was stretched out on his side in the cool grass, one hand propping his head. The sloping meadow he was on led to a pond, some few yards away. Across the pond was a line of trees, the beginning of a forest. A gentle breeze rippled the red water. Red water. It rustled the leaves on the red trees, and swayed the red grass. He rolled over onto his back and watched the reddish clouds move across the red sky. Red sky.

He had been here before, he knew. Twice maybe, once for sure. It was so peaceful, and he felt free, like this was his alone. Why aren't there any animals, or birds? he thought. But then, that was okay. There was no one here to bother him. He could come and go as he pleased; he could walk, swim when he wanted, or just lie here. And why is everything so goddamned red?

He had a feeling that someone, something was...watching him. He rolled over to face the pond and thought he saw movement. In the trees maybe. He watched intently for a while, but saw nothing of interest. He sat up and stretched, then got to his feet and began walking more or less in the direction of the pond.

His gait turned more purposeful as he roundedthe pond and headed toward the low brush at the edge of the trees. The crimsonsun was beginning to set, casting long shadows, and the wind was picking up alittle, bringing a chill with it. He still had the feeling... There—he thought hesaw something. It's just the wind,stupid, he told himself. A twig snapped. It was a muffled sound and close,almost directly in front of him in the thick brush. The hair stood up on theback of his neck as he peered into the shadows, ready to run if he had to.