Date: Sat, 17 Jan 2004 18:03:00 +0200
From: sanansaattaja2003@yahoo.com
Subject: Sam, chapter 6

This is a story about gay love between teenage boys. If that offends you or
if it is not permissible for you to read such things where you live or if
you are under 18, please leave now. The story is fiction, entirely.

Feel free to write to me at sanansaattaja2003@yahoo.com


Sam, chapter 6

Mack and Sharon and Sam were eating when Jenna called, but as soon as Mack
hung up the phone, he said, "Quick, grab your coats! That was Jay's
sister. Something's happened and Jay's in trouble. He needs help. We gotta
go."

Shocked, but without saying a word, the two ladies jumped up from the
table, not giving another thought to their half-eaten supper. In just
moments the three of them were in the car and Mack was tearing down the
street. Luckily there was little traffic, and even more fortunate, no
police car happened by, since Mack was speeding. He normally didn't do
that, but this was an emergency. Or at least it had seemed like it. He kept
replaying Jenna's cryptic phone conversation over and over in his mind and
repeated it for his wife and Sam while he drove. He had just driven to
Jay's home within the last hour, with Jay, so he knew all the right turns
to make, and in just under ten minutes from the time Jenna had called they
were pulling up to the curb in front of the Evans house.

Mack noticed that the garage door was open and that there was no car
inside, so he wondered what that might mean but didn't stop to think about
it. They all three ran up the walk to the front door and Mack rang the
doorbell. Almost before the chime sounded, however, the door swung open and
an obviously distraught Jenna ushered them into the entryway where they
found Jay, still sprawled half sitting on the floor.

Immediately, Sam cried out, "Jay!" and ran to kneel down beside him.

"Thank God he's awake again!" Jenna said, and then added, "And thank God
you've come!" Then she burst into tears and began sobbing almost
hysterically.

Sharon wrapped her arms around the weeping girl, trying to comfort her,
while Mack ran over to kneel beside Sam in front of Jay. "Oh my God," he
thought to himself, seeing his battered face with its big purple bruise and
the one eye black and swollen shut. The sickening smell of vomit made his
stomach lurch, but the sight of Jay's face was even more sickening to
him. Whatever could have happened? Who could have done this to this
beautiful boy?

Just then, having realized that other people were in the house, Jay's
mother came from the kitchen, still weeping, and looking bewildered and
disheveled. "Who are you?" she said to them.

Mack stood up and replied, "I'm Mack McMillan. My daughter Sam here is
Jay's school friend, and that's my wife Sharon. You're Jay's mother, I
assume?"

"Yes. Irene Evans."

"Mrs. Evans, I think we need to get Jay to a doctor. It's best we take him
to the emergency room, don't you think?" Mack said to her.

"NO... please! Please just help me carry him up to his room, sir. Surely
he'll be alright. I can look after him. Please, sir, we needn't..." She
pleaded with Mack, getting more and more distraught.

But Mack interrupted her, "No way, Mrs. Evans. I'm sorry, but I must insist
we get him to a doctor. It looks like he is hurt very badly and he's in
shock. See, he's shaking like a leaf."

And he was. Sam was talking to him, softly, and patting his face and his
hands, but he was not responding to her. He was awake, more or less, and
staring at her with his one eye, but there was just a blank expression in
it, like his mind was not really processing the information that was
reaching it. And his slight body was shivering violently.

"Please get me a blanket, Mrs. Evans," Mack instructed, and robot-like she
turned to obey, returning presently with a woolen blanket.

Mack put the blanket over Jay, and then stooped down and picked him up in
his arms. "Are you going to come with us, Mrs. Evans?" he asked, but she
hesitated, seeming unsure, unable to make a decision.

"Well, I don't... What if...? Well..." she stammered.

"We must hurry, ma'am. Please get your coat on and get your purse," Mack
said then, taking charge. And she did as she was told.

"Sharon, dear, will you be all right staying with the girl?" Mack asked.

She nodded, giving him a wan smile. "Please hurry, dear, and get Jay to the
hospital. Don't worry about me," Sharon urged.

"Come on, Sam. Take Jay's mother's arm and let's go," Mack said.

And then they were out the door, Mack carrying Jay, and Sam leading his
mother by the arm, out to the car.

Jenna cried out after them, "Bye, Jay!" and then began bawling
inconsolably. "Oh God!" she wailed. "He's not gonna die, is he? Please tell
me he's not gonna die. Jay, please come back! Please! I'll die if you don't
come back." and then she began sobbing uncontrollably in Sharon's arms.

Sharon led her to the living room and pulled her down beside her on the
couch, holding the nearly hysterical girl tight against her, crooning to
her and rocking her back and forth. Little by little Jenna regained a
little control and began to calm down, her sobs subsiding slowly. She began
to relax against Sharon's side.

Finally, when Jenna was quiet, though still crying soundlessly, tears
running down her cheeks, Sharon ventured to ask her what had happened to
Jay.

Almost woodenly, with a cold voice, Jenna said, "Dad did it."

Those three words and the tone in which they were spoken chilled Sharon to
the core, making her shiver, and her stomach lurched once, violently. She
had already suspected as much, but had tried to convince herself that it
couldn't be true. How could any father do something like that to his son,
and especially to a son as sweet and innocent and wonderful as Jay, who had
won her heart so quickly and completely when she had met him that
afternoon? She didn't want to pressure Jenna beyond her ability to deal
with it, but gently she asked her again, "What happened, sweetheart? Can
you tell me what happened?"

Jenna began, then, in chilling detail, and seemingly without emotion, to
relate to Sharon what she had seen and heard. She explained how she was
upstairs in her room doing homework when she suddenly heard their dad
hollering at Jay and then heard the sickening sound of him slapping
him. She had sprung up at once and run down the stairs to see what was
happening. When she got to the entryway, she could see Jay crumpled in a
heap on the floor, moaning, and their mother was screaming at their
dad. Then she saw how their dad kicked Jay before storming out of the house
and driving away. She then told Sharon about her and her mother trying to
get Jay to the couch, and how he couldn't walk, couldn't even stand up, and
how he had vomited all over himself. She told how their mother at first
talked about getting Jay to a doctor, and then seemed to change her mind,
fearing what their dad would say or do when he found out, and then she
explained about noticing that ID tag on the backpack Jay was carrying and
about calling the phone number she had found there in hopes of getting
someone to come and help Jay. He was so sick and she thought he was going
to die. She had felt so panicky when Jay blacked out, fearing that he was
dying and would never come back again. Having said that, she began crying
again, and Sharon just held her, rocking her, for a long time, in the
darkness of the living room.

Finally, she said to Jenna, "Are you hungry, sweetheart? You didn't have
any supper, did you?"

Jenna just shook her head, not answering.

"Let me look in the kitchen, OK? She released Jenna and stood up and walked
into the Evans kitchen, where she found the makings of their supper. There
was a roast and potatoes and gravy and some cooked vegetables and a green
salad all dished up and ready on the table. Everything was cold, of
course. Sharon dished up a plate with a slice of meat and some potatoes and
gravy and vegetable and heated it up in the microwave and then called Jenna
to come into the kitchen and eat. She did so, wordlessly. She chewed and
swallowed automatically, as if in a trance, and Sharon's heart went out to
the poor girl. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks for
the thousandth time that evening, thinking of the emotional trauma that
poor young girl had been subjected to, and of the scars it would certainly
leave on her psyche and soul, to say nothing of the emotional and physical
trauma Jay had suffered. She found herself praying over and over, silently,
that both of those precious children would recover, knowing that it would
take time and that they would need a lot of loving care.

* * * * * * * * *

Sam got in the backseat and Mack laid the still shivering, unresponsive Jay
more or less on his side on the seat beside her with his head in her
lap. The bruised side of his face was upward, of course, and she was
repelled and saddened by the sight of it, but couldn't tear her eyes away
from it. She began smoothing his hair with her hand over and over, tears
trickling down her cheeks. Irene sat in the passenger seat in front, and of
course Mack drove. Oddly, perhaps, they traveled in silence, each submerged
in his own thoughts.

Mack had a fairly good idea of where the nearest hospital was. Fortunately
it was nearby and the route was quite straightforward, so they wasted no
time getting there. Only six or seven minutes from the time they had left
the Evans home, they were pulling up to the emergency room entrance at the
rear of the hospital. Once there, Mack just gathered Jay up in his arms
again and ran inside with him. Seeing that Jay was badly hurt, the medical
personnel on duty took over without further ado, getting him situated on a
cart and wheeling him away down a corridor, beckoning for Mack to
follow. While Jay was being undressed and looked over, one of them asked
Mack for a quick account of what had happened so that they would have a
better idea what they were dealing with. He told them the little he knew
and then they asked him to return to the waiting room, promising to get
back to him as soon as they could.

Meanwhile Sam and Irene had come into the admissions area and Mack found
them standing at the front desk talking to the lady working there. Once she
understood that Irene was the patient's mother, she began asking her for
all the pertinent data: full name, birth date, address, telephone number,
next of kin, etc., typing the information into the computer in front of
her. When she asked about medical insurance, Irene hesitated, unsure of
what to say. She thought maybe the family had medical coverage through
Gene's work, but she didn't know for sure and couldn't give any details
about it.

"Um... I think my husband's employer provides medical insurance for all
employees and their families," she said.

"And who is his employer, ma'am?" the lady asked.

"Um... Uh... I'm sorry, I can't remember the name of the company," Irene
replied, obviously flustered.

"How long has he worked there, Mrs. Evans?" the lady inquired.

"Well, we just moved here two months ago. He works for a company that makes
some kind of farm machinery," she explained.

"Thank you, Mrs. Evans. We can get that information at a later time. Please
have a seat there in the waiting area," the lady said, kindly, and
indicated a group of sofas and armchairs arranged in a large circle around
a couple big coffee tables and some magazine racks. "There's a coffee
machine over there in the corner, and paper cups. Please feel free to help
yourselves," she said to the two ladies and Mack.

A number of other people were already sitting there, some of them sipping
coffee, one or two leafing through a magazine, a couple watching some game
show on the TV, all obviously waiting for some friend or loved one being
looked after somewhere down the same corridor where they had taken Jay. One
young couple was sitting together on a sofa by themselves, clinging to each
other and crying. The woman was completely inconsolable, the man trying his
best to comfort her and calm her down. A nervous little sparrow of a lady
sitting nearby whispered to Mack as he sat down on the sofa beside her,
"Those poor people, their little girl was just brought in by ambulance
maybe twenty minutes ago. I heard she'd been hit by a car as she was riding
her bike on the street in front of their house. I guess she must've still
been alive. She was covered up, of course, when they carried her past in
the corridor there on the stretcher, but I did manage to get a glimpse of
her little face and her beautiful blonde curls all matted with blood. Oh
God. I thought I would throw up. It's so awful. Oh God, those poor
parents..." And then she didn't say any more, but just sat there staring at
the unfortunate parents, sniffling and sympathizing.

Jay's mother slumped down at the end of a sofa and buried her face in her
hands. Soon her shoulders began shaking and she was obviously crying,
though silently. Sam sat down beside her and put her arm around her
shoulder, pulling her close. They sat that way for some time, in silence,
and gradually Irene's shaking subsided but she didn't raise her head.

"You must be awfully proud of Jay, Mrs. Evans," Sam said to her
finally. "He's so wonderful. He's one of the sweetest boys I know."

Irene didn't respond, so Sam continued, "I haven't known him very long, you
know. But already he's one of my very best friends. And my mom and dad
think he's the greatest too."

Irene did lift her eyes then, and looked at Sam, seemingly seeing her for
the first time. Finally she murmured sadly, "I don't know any of Jay's
friends. I didn't even know he had any. He never brings them home..."

"I'd love to visit Jay at his house, Mrs. Evans. And my best friend Lee
would too. He and Jay are very close also. They've been working on that
history assignment together for school, you know."

"Well, Gene w-w-ou... Um, I don't... My husband wouldn't li...," Irene
stammered, and then her face turned red and she buried it again in her
hands, saying no more.

Sam was shocked. She couldn't imagine not bringing her close friends home,
and she definitely couldn't fathom not telling her parents about them. She
told her mom and dad everything, shared everything with them. Well, almost
everything, that is. She had never told them about Lee being gay. After
all, that was Lee's secret, and not hers to tell. And neither would she
tell them about Lee and Jay being more than just best friends.

Both Sam and Mack had guessed that Jay's dad must have had something to do
with Jay being hurt, and found his absence at that time very suspicious
also. But neither of them had really consciously processed that thought in
their minds. It was just lurking there in the back corners, showing its
ugly, menacing face from time to time, making them shudder whenever it
appeared, and then it would dart back into the shadows. In the foreground
of their minds were only thoughts of Jay, now, and worry about him, nagging
worry that made their stomachs churn, mixed with warm feelings of love for
him, and a kaleidoscope of memories of him from their brief
acquaintance. Memories of his sweetness and innocence and shyness, his
sense of humor, his intelligence, his polite and unassuming manner. They
both were amazed at how quickly he had captured their hearts. They could
see only virtue in him—nothing negative—and for the life of them, they
couldn't imagine anyone, anyone, intentionally doing him harm. But his own
father? That possibility was too horrible to contemplate.

The waiting felt interminable. Sam found herself watching the big clock on
the wall, the long hand ticking off the minutes one after the other,
seemingly at a much slower rate than they normally did, as was common for
hospital waiting rooms. She amused herself for a bit with the absurd
thought that maybe they made special clocks to hang up in such places,
clocks that ran much more slowly than regular ones. She thought about Lee
and wished he were there beside her. She felt such an urge, a need, to talk
to him, to tell him everything, to share with him her sickening fear and
worry, to pour out to him the growing rage she felt inside her at Jay's
dad, on whom she was beginning to pin the blame for Jay's injuries with
more and more certainty in her own mind. Lee would want to know—-hell, he
needed to know-—about Jay, of course, and would surely be upset that she
hadn't let him know at once. Actually, she had had no chance to call him
before now. But she thought maybe there was no point in calling him now
until they found out what the doctors had to say. Hopefully then she would
have good news to share—-good at least in the sense that he would soon be
OK again. He would be dreadfully shocked and upset, too, of course, to find
out that Jay had been hurt. It wrenched her heart to think about how Lee
would feel when he learned that. She determined to wait awhile longer, in
any case, before calling him. Suddenly she remembered that she had promised
to go over to his house after supper. He had been waiting for her now for
some time, and was no doubt worried about her. Caught up in the excitement,
or rather the horror, of what was taking place, she had completely
forgotten about that until now. Probably he had even tried to call her at
her house and gotten no answer. That would make him worry even more. He
must be getting frantic. Poor Lee. And poor Jay. And then Sam began to cry
again, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Mack found himself looking often at the clock too. And then he would look
at Sam, and at Mrs. Evans, still hunched over on the sofa with her face in
her hands, and then he would gaze for long minutes toward the corridor
where he hoped a doctor would soon appear with good news of Jay, and then
he would look back at the clock, then at Sam again, and at Mrs. Evans
slumped beside her on the sofa, and then back toward the corridor, around
and around in a seemingly endless circle. And then he began to think about
Sharon back at the Evans house, and of Jay's sister—-what was her name
again? And then, unbidden, the thought of Jay's dad popped into his mind,
and then, as if shocked with an electric prod, his body jerked suddenly,
"What will happen if Mr. Evans comes home and finds Sharon—-a strange
woman—-there in his house with his daughter, and his wife and son gone?
What is he like? Is he deranged? Is he dangerous for everyone? Did he
really beat his own son, his own sweet, wonderful, beautiful son, so hard
that he had to be taken to the hospital? Oh my God, I hope Sharon will be
all right over there, and that innocent little girl." He made up his mind
to call Sharon and tell her to take the girl and leave, to call a taxi and
go home to their house where they would be safe. He got up and walked over
to Mrs. Evans to ask her for her phone number so he could talk to his wife.

* * * * * * * * *

When Gene Evans left his house and began tearing like a madman down the
street in his car, he didn't have any goal in mind. He had just felt
everything closing in on him, crashing down on him, and that was his only
way out. He had to flee, to get away from it all, and to get a hold of
himself. His heart was racing out of control and his mind was racing, also
out of control, and his car was racing, not yet out of control. But a
little girl on a bicycle that was wobbling and swaying along the edge of
the street in front of him swerved suddenly into the path of his speeding
car. He managed, luckily, to jerk the steering wheel just at the last
minute, enough to avoid slamming right into the bicycle full force and
flattening it under his car. Instead, he just clipped the front wheel of it
with the corner of his bumper and sped on past, not looking back. His heart
leapt into his throat. "Shit! I gotta get slowed down," he thought. "That's
all I need, to kill some poor kid on a bike. Oh hell! What more can go
wrong?"

If he had looked back, or looked in the rearview mirror, he would have seen
the child go flying through the air, slamming into the side of a car parked
at the curb and then sliding down onto the pavement where she lay unmoving,
her twisted bicycle lying on the street some feet away. But he hadn't
looked and he tried to force himself not to think about the hapless kid. He
should stop, he knew. That was the right thing to do, to go back and look
after the kid, to own up to what he had done. Oh hell! What would happen
now? Bile rose up in his throat and he thought he was going to be
sick. "Damn! I gotta get a hold of myself," he said out loud. But panic set
in and took over and he kept on going. After all, he tried to convince
himself, he had never seen her before and would never see her again. He
didn't know her and knew nothing about her. Hell, he didn't want to know
anything about her, ever. Just forget about her. She never even existed. It
was better that way. Maybe he could just erase the memory of her and her
damned bike and the whole nightmare from his mind. He had enough worries
already without compounding them by getting himself entangled with some
fool strangers and their kid who didn't have enough sense to keep her bike
offa the street. Hell, she couldn't even ride it in the first place. So it
wasn't his fault, was it, that he had hit her? She had swerved right in
front of his car, after all. Shit! Why did he always have to have all the
goddamned bad luck? Strangely enough, the more he tried to force himself
not to think about the victim of his hit-and-run, the more she filled his
mind, until he began to wonder if he was going to go crazy.

Suddenly Gene was seized with a fit of shaking. His whole body was shaking
violently, as the shock of what he had done overcame him. He couldn't
control himself. "Come on, Evans, get a grip!" he said aloud to himself, as
he tried to force himself to stop shaking, tried to concentrate on driving,
on keeping his car headed in a straight line down the street. It felt again
like he was going to throw up, and he just had to pull over. He managed to
stop his car at the curb, still shaking like a leaf. He sat there staring
straight ahead, but seeing nothing, and started to pound his fists
repeatedly on the steering wheel. Tears gushed suddenly from his eyes then,
and he buried his face in his hands against the steering wheel in front of
him. Oh God! What was this? He hadn't cried, ever, not since he was a
baby. Not Gene Evans. What ever was he coming to?

After a long time, the shaking stopped, the tears ceased, and Gene began to
calm down a bit. "I gotta drive on," he thought to himself. "Shit! I can't
let `em find me sitting here like an idiot so they start askin' questions."
He pulled onto the street again, cautiously at first, and drove on, more
slowly now, but not with more concentration on what he was doing and where
he was going. He drove as if on autopilot, not thinking about it. His mind
was elsewhere, churning and churning and churning. Eventually, he began to
remember why he had driven off in the first place, and that pushed thoughts
of the girl on the bike to the back of his mind for awhile, giving him
other grist for his mill. Jay. That damned pansy-assed, no-good, runt of a
kid that was supposed to be his son. Ha! How could a jock, a man, damn it,
a man like him have ended up with such a sissy of a son as Jay? What a
wimp! He was a thorn in the flesh. A continual source of irritation and
embarrassment for him, Gene Evans, the star of his high school football
team, the guy every opposing player in the whole goddamned state had feared
and dreaded. Hell yeah, the very thought of that well-earned reputation
made his chest swell with pride again now, like it always did. He'd shown
`em! No one could stand up to him. Few had even tried, but those who did
had lived to rue the day. Damned right they had. He'd flattened `em. Every
last one of `em.

One o' the biggest mistakes he'd ever made was fallin' for Irene. Shit. Too
bad he couldn't go back and undo that; hell, he coulda had any girl in the
damned school by just flickin' his finger at `em. They'd a' come
runnin'. They'd a' been flocking around him, that's fer sure. They were all
pantin' for him, the bitches. He'd always known it and it'd given him a
continual hard-on just knowin' that every girl in the damned school wanted
him. But he had stuck with Irene. The frigid prude. Fuck! She'd never even
properly put out for him until they were married either. Not once. It used
to drive him wild, and the fact that she was holdin' out on him had kept
him pursuin' her. He refused to concede defeat. What a goddamned fool he'd
been. That's the only regret he had. She'd been a classy chick back then,
sure enough. And popular in school. The star cheerleader. So bein' her man,
or rather, her bein' his girl, had given him even added status, elevated
him even more in everyone's eyes. He could never have dumped her and made
do with anyone less. That would've lowered him. But fuck! Why did he hafta
be so dumb as to marry the bitch? Might as well be married to a damned
rug. Hell, that's all she was anyway. She just lay down and let him walk
all over her. She never stood up to him. Ever. Until today, he thought,
then, with a start. When he had hit that bastard Jay, she'd come flyin' at
him, screamin' like a banshee... almost startled the shit outa him. Totally
outa character for her. Whatever got into her anyway?

And that damned sissy of a son of hers is just like `er. Looks like `er
too. He hadn't got any of his, Gene's, genes, obviously. Then he laughed
crazily to himself when he thought how funny that sounded: Gene's
genes. HaHaHa! Didn't know he was so witty, been hidin' his talents even
from himself! HaHa!

But then, suddenly, he had a flashback to the reason he had gotten so mad
at Jay that afternoon. Mad enough, finally, to take a swing at him. He had
never hit the bastard before. Never. Not Irene or Jenna either. But that
goddamned fag, that queer, that dirty old man who'd had the gall to sit
there in his car in front of his house and put his arms around his boy in
broad daylight in front of the whole world. The damned bastard should be
shot. The world'd be a better place without him, one less goddamned
fag. Every fuckin' one of `em should be rounded up and locked away, he'd
always figured. But on second thought, maybe that'd be lettin' `em off too
easy. Someone should make `em suffer. He'd gladly volunteer t' help with
that! Oh yeah! That'd be a pleasure! He hated all goddamned queers more
than anything. But... and oh shit! This was the part that galled him, that
cut him to the quick. He'd never really thought that his boy, as wimpy and
sissified as he was, coulda turned out to be one of them. It made his blood
boil. It enraged him to the point of insanity, almost. Livin' right in his
house, under his roof, sittin' at his table and eatin' his hard earned
food, was a fag. Shit! Bearin' his name, too. A fuckin' disgrace. He didn't
know if he'd ever get over it. How in the world was he gonna face the
bastard again and go on seein' his damned queer pansy face day after day
and rememberin' the disgustin' picture of him sittin' there with that
goddamned old fag's arms around `im. Whatever had he done t' deserve havin'
his son turn into a damned queer? Life was so fuckin' unfair!

Gene had no idea where he was, he'd just been driving aimlessly, paying no
attention to the streets or roads. He looked around, suddenly, trying to
orientate himself, but it was futile. He seemed to be in a rather run-down
part of the city now. Slummy. Scary, almost. Ha, that was a laugh! Nothin'
scared him, Eugene William Evans. No sir. Then he noticed a bar and pulled
over to the curb and parked a little ways past it. It wasn't a very
imposing looking place, by any means. Decrepit. Just like the area. It fit
right in. But it was a bar just the same. Just what he needed right
then. If he had ever needed a drink in his life, he sure as hell needed one
then. A good stiff one. Ah! He could taste it already.

He got out of the car and walked, swaggered, actually, into the bar. `The
Golden Swan'. He laughed humorlessly to himself at the name of the
place. Biggest joke he ever heard. Inside, the bar was as decrepit looking
and unimpressive as it was from the outside. And dark. They sure weren't
spendin' much money on lights anyway, but what the hell. Who wanted to look
at the other ugly fuckers sittin' in there anyway? And he sure didn't want
`em starin' at him while he had his drink. Just as well the place was dimly
lit. Easier to hide in the shadows that way. There weren't many patrons, he
noticed, as he walked up to the bar in the back. Four tough looking guys
were playing cards at a table in the corner, smoking foul-smelling cigars,
and every once in awhile taking a big gulp from their glass. A pathetic,
wrinkle-faced, scraggly-haired woman, pushing fifty, looking like a cross
between a tramp and a floozy with big bags under her eyes and more paint on
her than a Picasso, sat at the bar, her skinny legs crossed at the knee,
her skimpy skirt hiked way up almost to her crotch, one foot swinging back
and forth lazily with its scuffed and dirty red high heeled shoe dangling
from her toes. She was smoking a cigarette in a long, long holder, gazing
out into the room, facing the door, as if looking for some potential john
to come sauntering in, like a hapless fly into the web of a spider. Three
mean looking toughs with dirty jeans and wife beater t-shirts, their heads
shaved and their arms covered with tattoos, stood at the juke box in the
corner, jerking and swaying to the insanely loud hard rock that came
blaring out of it. They looked spaced out, nearly, and hardly more than
teenagers still. What they were doing in a bar was a good question, but no
one bothered or cared.

Gene sat on a stool at the far end of the bar, in the darkest corner, and
surveyed the scene around him while waiting for the wizened old bartender
to hobble over to him and take his order. The floozy sitting several stools
away was eyeing him up and down hungrily, practically licking her lips. She
rarely saw such a good looking hunk of beef come through that door, no
doubt, and she was hungry! She looked like she was contemplating moving
over to a stool closer to him, but he glared at her as coldly and
uninvitingly as he could and she stayed where she was. But she kept
glancing over in his direction anyway.

He ordered vodka, and gulped down several slugs in rapid succession,
thirstily. They burned his throat, but he didn't care. He began to feel the
effects quite quickly, the warmth spreading over him and through him, and
the tension draining out of him. Ahhhhh! Just what he needed. He slugged
down more vodka, and the bartender kept filling his glass. After awhile,
Gene was feeling no pain whatsoever, and thoughts of Jay and his `sugar
daddy' and of his poor spineless wife and of the girl on the bike faded
further and further back into the darkest recesses of his mind. The
dilapidated old bar didn't look so bad anymore either, and hell, even the
whore sitting a few stools away was beginning to look better. Damn! That
vodka was wonderful stuff!

He would no doubt have kept drinking until he fell off the stool and passed
out cold, but amazingly enough, the bartender finally refused to give him
any more, demanded payment and sent him staggering on his way. By some
miracle, he managed to make his way to the door and then from the door to
his car. Fishing the keys out of his pants pocket and then getting the key
into the lock on the door was considerably more of a challenge, but he even
managed to do that and had just sunk down onto the seat when the three
toughs he had seen earlier in the bar suddenly appeared out of the
darkness, standing at his side. One of them gave him a quick knock on the
back of the head with a tire iron and another fished his wallet out of his
pocket and they were off down the street, leaving him slumped over the
steering wheel, out cold and oozing blood down into the collar of his
shirt.

The door of his car was left ajar, causing the dome light to shine. Some
time later two policemen cruised by on the street and noticed Gene's car
parked at the curb with the inside light on, and so they stopped to
investigate. As soon as they walked up to the car and got a better look at
it they became very interested. An all-points bulletin had gone out on just
such a car. There had been an eye witness to a hit-and-run incident on the
other side of the city earlier that evening in which a little girl on a
bike had been hit by a car. The witness was able to give a very accurate
description of the car that had hit the bike and then sped away, and this
one matched that description to a tee—-the very same make and model and
color. The cops could see that the man sitting in the car wasn't going to
be going anywhere soon, so they walked around to the front of the car to
look for some telltale mark indicating that it had hit something
recently. They found a slight dent and scrape in the right front corner of
the bumper and a bigger scrape along the front fender, so they felt sure
they had hit pay dirt and were immediately on their two-way, reporting
their find.

* * * * * * * * *

Just as Mack was on his way over to ask Mrs. Evans for her phone number, a
doctor appeared at the door of the waiting room and asked who was family of
Jay Evans. He wasn't smiling, not at all. He had a very sober look on his
face, and all three of them, Irene, Mack and Sam, felt a shiver of fear
pass through them.

"I'm Jay's mother," Irene said, standing up, and Mack and Sam stood up with
her.

The doctor said to the three of them, "Please come with me," and led them
into a little room nearby and closed the door.