"But the smell, Tad..." Christen whined, her blonde hair up in a bun and the smooth contours of her tan complexion furrowing as she pouted.
"Forget the smell, I'll be in and out," Tad scolded, like an out-of-patience father.
"Don't talk to me that way, Tad," Christen cried, tears building in her eyes.
"Listen, Chris, when I cash old Mrs. Haigh's check I'll buy you an ice cream. All right. I know you love chocolate chip, so I'll get you a double scoop, okay?" Tad promised. Christen shook her head yes.
"You know, it would've been a lot easier if I would've just killed you back at that old house," he joked while pulling himself out of the car.
"Shut up, Tad," Christen smirked puckering her lips in childish rebellion.
Tad strolled into the bank, his thick-heeled leather cowboy boots pounding hollowly on the tile floor. He wore faded blue jeans with heavy grease stains on them from when he fixed his Mustang and a light green tee-shirt. He walked up to a cashier. She busied herself counting twenties and fifties. Tad cleared his throat.
"Just a minute, sir," the overweight cashier snapped.
Tad waited patiently tapping his boot against the linoleum. Minutes ticked past; the seconds began to crawl at a hum-drum pace. Tad was just opening his mouth to scream a horrific obscenity at the fat teller when three men in ski masks burst through the bank's front doors.
"Everybody on the floor," one of the masked gunmen screamed while waving his rifle around threateningly. "Now!"
Tad and the other bank patrons dropped to the ground. The tallest of the gunmen ran to the fat cashier and ordered her to fill his bag with cash. The obese lady put rolls of twenties and fifties in his sack while the blunt barrel of an uzi was shoved into her ribs. Tears streamed down her face smudging the heavily applied rouge and mascara.
As Tad laid on the cool floor, he felt the warm touch of his nine-millimeter pressed against his flesh under his shirt. The three thieves concluded their withdrawal and exited the bank. As the glass doors behind them shut people began to sob and breathe easier. A man, an employee of the bank, immediately called the police.
"Damn," Tad thought, "I'll never get this check cashed here now." Tad raised himself off the floor and straightened his wrinkled clothes.
The obese cashier sat behind the counter crying hysterically. Tad approached her with Mrs. Haigh stolen check. "Excuse me ma'am, you think you could cash this check for me," he asked extending the piece of paper to her. She just stared at him with amazement, her eyes swollen in the thick folds of her jowls.
"Oh no," a weak man peering out of the bank's front window screamed, "they've kidnapped a young girl."
Tad stuffed the dead woman's check in his pocket and rushed to the window. As he stared out of the glass he saw the three masked assailants drive past in an older model Ford Bronco with Christen held hostage in the back seat. A pistol pressed to her skull. He rushed out of the bank and jumped into the vinyl seat of his classic '68 Mustang. He turned the key in the ignition--the 428 Cobra Jet engine purred --he pressed the accelerator --the engine roared--he put the car in gear and sped away, following the Bronco.
Tad trailed the Bronco down the main highway and when it turned off onto a small dirt road. He kept a safe distance behind, knowing that if they saw him they might kill Christen.
The dirt road was pocked marked with deep pot holes. Mrs. Haigh's corpse thudded around in Tad's trunk whenever he drove too fast on the washboard road. Sweat beaded on his forehead, he was eager to get his hands on those bastards. How dare they take his woman. He would enjoy gutting them with his knife.
A hundred yards ahead, the road lined with tall Virginia pines, the Bronco turned off into a driveway. Tad nonchalantly drove past noticing from the corner of his eye the three men, now without their ski masks, pushing Christen from the Bronco toward a small house.
Tad's Mustang drove on up the dirt road until he came to a small clearing where he parked. There, in the sweltering heat of an Alabama dusk, Tad waited until night. Mrs. Haigh's body began stinking horribly. Tad buried her in the clearing.
Tad snuck to the house, hiding in the dense foliage--a natural predator's instinct. Light spilled from the windows illuminating patches of the small yard. Tad maneuvered with stealthy awareness to a window. He looked in, Christen was bound to a chair. The three men loitering inside in their sweat-soaked undershirts. Tad watched as one of the men eyed Christen with a fiery lust burning in his eyes. The man rose from his table, a half empty bottle of liquor in one hand, a knife in the other, and approached Christen's helpless form.
Tad's face turned red with anger, he moved to the front door. He heard Christen scream, "No," from inside and then men laughing like barbarians. Tad pulled his nine-millimeter from his pants and loaded a bullet in the chamber. He kicked in the front door. He shot the two thieves at the card table first, making sure not to hit any vital organs. They fell to the floor holding their bleeding wounds.
The third man, a thick grayish mustache above his lip and close cropped brown hair tinged with silver on his head, ducked behind Christen and held a six-inch blade to her throat.
"All right, I'll cut her throat if you come any closer," the man screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. Tad raised his pistol and stared down the sights at the man's hand that held the knife to Christen's throat.
"I'm serious, asshole," the thief yelled, "if you don't drop that gun I'll kill her. I swear to God."
"Oh do ya now," Tad said huskily and pulled the trigger.
The bullet fired from the gun's barrel and sped across the length of the room to erupt through the man's hand. Blood and bone fragments shot from the back of the man's hand and he dropped the knife. Tad raced over and kicked the man in the face. He fell whimpering to the floor, holding his crushed hand.
Tad untied Christen from her bondage. She stood and embraced him hugging him tightly against her.
"It's all right, Chris," Tad whispered in her ear while covering the three wounded men with his pistol.
The paramedics arrived shortly after the police. Sirens wailed as the flashing lights on top of police cars and ambulances danced wildly around the house.
"Mr. Mosier," the police officer said to Tad , "you did a fine job here tonight."
"Thank you sir," Tad told the policeman.
"You know there's a five thousand dollar reward for their capture don't you?" the officer stated, his eyes wide.
"No I didn't. All I cared about was getting my girlfriend back."
"Well I'm sure you'll get at least three thousand of the reward money for the capture of two of the suspects," he assured.
"Excellent," Tad smiled, "I hope you guys catch that last asshole."
"We will, don't you worry son." The police officer shook Tad's hand and began walking back to his patrol car.
Tad wrapped his arm around Christen and together they walked back to his car.
"You don't think he suspects?" Christen asked, worry etched on her face.
"Nah, he didn't suspect shit," Tad said as opened his car's trunk exposing the third thief tied up with electrical tape. Tad flashed a wry smile at Christen and pulled out his knife.
"Ya better not watch Chris. This might get messy."
The story Hero is Copyright 1998 by Matthew L. Beard.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.