face for warmth and concealment purposes. My outfit helped slim my portly writer figure and his thick sweater and thick hat bulked up his rather scrawny build, giving us both the impression of muscle to be thrown around.
As we approached the storage locker, Titus Wade pulled up in his truck while Farmington was unlocking the door. At first nothing seemed amiss and Parker didn’t run away when he turned and saw Wade coming his way. Rickard stopped and motioned for me to do the same.
Their discussion quickly escalated to a physical confrontation with Farmington swatting at Wade. For a brief second I laughed at his pathetic attempts at self-defense, but then Wade reached around to his back and pulled out a small black box he shoved into Farmington’s neck. I’d seen enough news reports recently on police brutality to recognize a Taser. Rickard and I rushed toward the locker. Wade had Farmington in the back seat of his truck and was slamming it shut when we caught up to them and yelled for him to stop. Wade made a brief move like he wanted to go back to the storage shed before leaving, but quickly reconsidered and jumped in his truck and sped away.
I started to run back to my car to follow them, but Rickard kept moving further toward the storage shed. Wade must have thought about going back for the money, but when we showed up he cut his losses and ran. I didn’t want to think about the sort of plan he had where Farmington was more important to him than a bag of money.
“Let’s go,” I yelled.
Rickard kept walking toward the shed.
“I’m getting my money.”
“But we can’t let Wade—”
“Do what? So he stays with Wade instead of you for a little bit. This way we get the money and the professor.”
My emotions were swirling in the same cocktail of panic they had the night of the department party, so I took a breath and calmed myself. I could dredge up enough bad thoughts to keep me pushing through the ugliness of a kidnapping, but a scam with cash and Wade holding the professor only spelled doom.
And yet I kept dwelling on the things I could do with that money. I led a life with minimal expense and minimal commitment to maximize my chances of surviving on my future writing income, making even a small infusion of instant cash go a long way. All I wanted was Farmington’s signature on my thesis approval form. With the money though, I wouldn’t need it.”
“Come on,” Rickard said through my brain farts. “He might come back.”
I sprinted back to Rickard as he was fiddling with the lock on the storage shed. The lock was an electronic keypad on a black iron box. While it was one of the more complex pieces of engineering I’d seen to date, I was surprised at the ease with which Rickard was typing in a combination and opening the lock.
“You know the combination?”
“Baseball,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He had the lock open, but was having trouble getting it off of the door to open it.
“I know baseball,” I said. “Pitchers, catchers, Ball Park hot dogs and overpriced beer. How does that—”
Rickard snapped his head around and glared at me.
“You don’t know baseball,” he said. “You don’t know the soul of the game or the way it gets into your brain and just…”
He left it at that and I wasn’t stupid enough to chase him into whatever crazy place he’d pulled that from. So I stuck my little girly hand in the space between the lock and the door and helped him tug it open.
“Aside from the rusty doors and CIA surplus locks, this doesn’t seem like a very secure place to stash a bag full of cash,” I said. “You could probably take out one of these side panels with a screwdriver and a strong breeze, bypassing the lock completely.”
Inside the shed, Rickard bumped around a bit while I stayed closer to the door, trying to get a peek of what else was in the shed. There didn’t seem to be much else, but I saw a couple of cardboard boxes in the middle of the floor. Before I could contemplate the boxes, their contents, or my uncomfortably burgeoning curiosity in Parker Farmington’s life and secrets any further, Rickard pushed by me with a large suitcase in one hand and a small handgun in the other.
“How old is that thing?” I asked, following him back to my car.
“Newish. Fired I’m sure, but untraceable.”
“The suitcase,” I said. “It’s in great condition, but good god, it’s got to be older than me. How much do you think something like that would go for on eBay?”
He didn’t answer me, we made it to the car without any further trouble, and as I settled into my seat I began to imagine something better for myself. I imagined my share of the money going into a bank account with low interest and high security. I’ve never been good with my real life money, but in my fantasies I turn into Mr. Fiscal Security. But all it took was one bad turn of the key and I knew there wasn’t going to be anything good for me coming out of this. Rickard tried to start my car a couple more times before finally looking to me.
“Fucking American cars,” he said, getting out of the car.
I didn’t want to leave the car so I rolled down my window to yell at him.
“Where are you going?”
“Unless you’ve got a backup, we need to get my car.”
“With the body?”
“I know someone who can help us with that. She’s paralyzed, and a bit of a bitch, but last resorts and all of that, right?”
I nodded and wondered if it came down to it, whether I’d prefer jail or death.
RICKARD WAS back in the car with me when a rusty blue full-sized van pulled up next to us. I tried to move my hand to check my door lock, but my arm was numb from the cold and wouldn’t move.
“Check the locks,” I said. “Make sure they’re—”
“That’s the Cavalry, man. Rescue bitch is here.”
Rickard moved from the car to the front seat of the van in the time I was able to pump enough energy into my arms and legs to get my own door open. I stood without closing the door for several seconds, wondering what to do with my car. Rickard rolled his window down and stuck his head out of the van.
“Want me to come back for you, leave you alone to mourn your golf cart?”
“I think I still have Triple A,” I said. “They made me pay a huge lump sum when I tried to cancel and I wonder if I should call them.”
“We got a ride,” Rickard said.
He popped his head back inside the van and came back out with a joint hanging off his lips and a beer can in his hand.
“A ride with beverage service.”
“You think maybe it’s just
