This is the third and final installment of The Man on the Path Trilogy. If you have not read the previous stories, I encourage you to do so. Here are the links to each:
The Man on the Path:
http://www.writingforums.com/viewtop...202&highlight=
Hit List:
http://www.writingforums.com/viewtop...507&highlight=
I wrote this one with slightly more discrete symbolism, unlike the previous two. I hope you like it, and would be glad to hear all the things you have to say. Enjoy!
----------
Witness
By: Graff
October 30, 10:32 pm
“C’mon Donny!” says a half drunk man, holding a microphone out to me. “Get up there and give us one!”
“Not tonight, Bob,” I say, embarrassed, but smiling. “I’m just about to go outside for a smoke.”
“That shit’ll kill ya buddy,” he says, forcing the microphone into someone else’s face.
I grab my shoes and coat, and go outside.
It looks like it’s rained since I’ve been in the party, and the air is surprisingly cold. I slip the package of Camels out of my front pocket, remove one, and light it. The end of the cigarette glows orange in the dark, putting a fiery barrier between me and the night. I feel safe when I’m smoking, and that’s part of the reason I’ve kept it up this long. Unlike some, I’ve never even had the thought of quitting.
A short distance down the street, there is a black Mercedes parked by the curb. Really nice, it looks brand new.
I wonder when the day will come when I can afford something like that. Having less than four grand in my bank account, it seems to be the light at the end of an endless tunnel.
I blow smoke into the air, and for a second, I think I see words in the swirling cloud. In a instant, they disperse. I could have sworn the smoke spelled out my name. “Donny”. A shiver runs up my spine, and I feel more uncomfortable than I have ever felt. That burning barrier seems to no longer shield me from the night, and I am vulnerable.
I drop the cigarette on the grass, and twist it into the earth with my shoe. That’s what you get for not protecting me, old buddy.
I hear a sound from down the street. The driver’s side door of the black Mercedes opens, and a fully suited man emerges. He proceeds to walk down the sidewalk. He walks up to a door not far from where I am, seeming to take no notice of me. I must be well concealed by the thick darkness tonight.
I see him hesitate, then ring the doorbell. The door opens, but I am at an angle that I can’t see the person inside.
The suited man simply says, “Roger Applewood?”
I hear something muffled from inside the door, but can’t quite make it out.
The next event is something I know will stick with me forever, and it happens almost faster than I can see. The suited man’s hand disappears into his jacket, and reappears holding gun. As this takes place, I move back into the darkness to keep out of sight. I hear the muffled shot of the gun, and the thump of a body hitting the floor.
The suited man walks briskly back to his Mercedes, gets in, and begins to drive.
I’m in shock the whole time. I question what I just saw, before running back into the party to tell them what had happened.
* * *
October 30, 11:03 pm
“You sure that’s everything?” says the tall, uniformed cop.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it,” I reply, having just finished my description of what I had seen.
“Well, we’re gonna go check out the scene, you can come if you’d like.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll come and make sure what I saw was real,” I say, half smiling.
Accompanied by half a dozen or so cops, I head to the scene of what had taken place earlier. Ninety-seven Crouswald.
As we approach, I notice the door to the house is closed. I could have sworn he left it wide open before taking off. It must have been closed by the wind or something.
The officers knock on the door before attempting to open it. My blood runs cold at the sight of what is there. Or not there. Behind the door, there is nothing. No body, no blood, nothing. I feel sick as the officers turn to look at me with puzzled looks on their faces.
“I—“ I try to say something, but nothing comes out.
The cops go into the house and begin a search. I stand in the empty doorway, just not knowing what to say. One of the cops approaches me and asks,
“Are you sure he didn’t take the body with him?”
“Y—Yes, he left with nothing. I’m sure of it,” I reply.
He has a suspicious look on his face, and turns to go back into the house.
I hear one of the cops walkie-talkies crackle, delivering a message. After hearing the transmission, they all turn and run out the door past me.
“If you’re comin’, come fast,” says one of them, “We’ve got a report of a black Mercedes not too far from here.”
I follow the cops to the cars, and hop in the back seat with the first officer I talked to. Even if witnessing that murder was traumatic, I can’t help finding this all pretty exciting.
There is a steel mesh barrier between me and the two cops in the front seat, through which I observe the action going on up front. I can see what looks to be a GPS built into the dashboard, and the driver occasionally takes his eyes off the road to risk a quick glance at it.
We are speeding along the deserted roads, kicking up a cloud of mist behind us, due to the wet roads.
By the time we reach our destination, the Mercedes is nowhere to be found, but a door is open on one of the generic houses lining the streets.
We exit the cars in a hurry, sprinting up to the door. I hang behind, nervous of getting in someone’s way.
They search the house inside out, and this time, find a used bullet shell in an upstairs T.V. room, but still don’t find a body. They dust the shell, looking for fingerprints, but none appear.
How is this guy so quick? And how come there are never bodies at the scene? I am positive he didn’t take a body from the first scene, but the police seem to disagree with me. I don’t blame them, it seems very odd to me as well.
* * *
October 30, 11: 56 pm
Another report comes in of a black Mercedes, parked on the side of the road. There is a dead man on the pavement adjacent to it, and a Cadillac De’ Ville, parked behind it.
We rush to the scene, only to find exactly that. The suited man that I saw is lying on the road, a pool of blood formed around his head. The pistol is still gripped tightly in his gloved hand. There is a wide eyed look of terror still plastered on his face. The look of a psychotic man.
There are no license plates on the Cadillac, and it is still running, spilling exhaust into the night air. As we approach the car, I think I can make out a figure behind the steering wheel. Is someone still alive in there?
A strange thought pops into my already busy head at this inappropriate moment. This is the longest I have ever gone without a cigarette, since the day I started smoking. I don’t know what triggered the thought, and I don’t want to know. All I need to know right now, is who is behind that steering wheel.
The officers approach with their guns drawn and pointed at the figure. I stay safely behind them, and move into view of the driver’s window. Now that I can see into the car, I notice that there is more than one person inside.
“Oh my God,” one of the cops says, recoiling.
I too, recoil when I comprehend what is inside. Sitting in each of the black leather seats, is a dead body, complete with pale faces, chins slumped forward on their chest. All dead, yet all sitting in perfect position, as if this was a family trip to the movies.
I move to the curb, hunch over, and vomit. It’s the most terrifying and repulsive thing I’d ever seen. An image that would stick with me for the rest of my natural life.
After I recover, I sit down on the curb, thinking about the nights events. I look down at my watch and read the time.
12:00
