On another late Friday evening, light from the headlights on Warner’s truck danced off the falling sleet to illuminate the workshop. The rhythm of the windshield wipers cleared the sleet and revealed a dirty orange-and-white braided rope lying encrusted in ice on the slick drive. Stopping the truck, Warner’s brow furrowed while Jace Everett’s “Bad Things” blared from the truck radio.
I don’t remember leaving that out.
After staring at the rope for a moment, he pulled forward and parked beside the workshop. Glancing at the side door, he exhaled loudly. Everything looks fine. The rope must have fallen off the truck.
Through the rear-view mirror, he checked the load of 2-by-4s and plywood sheets secured under a blue tarp in the rear. With the cabin roof finished, the new supplies were destined for the next project: enclosing the cabin’s exterior.
Grabbing his flashlight from the floorboard, Warner stepped out from the truck and Bella bounded to the ground behind him. Shutting the door, he clicked on the flashlight and strolled over to pick up the rope. Stiff from the near freezing temperature, the braid rasped against his fingers as he tossed it onto the tarp. Opening the rear cab door, he withdrew a duffle bag, throwing it over his left shoulder, before grabbing two grocery bags. He heard the rain and sleet spluttering on the roof, like sand falling on paper.
His week had been busier than usual arranging to return to Oklahoma to be with his mother for his father’s birthday. It would be ‘the first’ of many difficult ‘first’ holidays and anniversaries over the next year without his father. He had felt torn between his two families, trying to balance time with his mother and building the cabin for Kendra. In compromise, he had scheduled a flight to leave early Monday and return Friday in time to continue the weekend construction. He could almost hear his father’s words, ‘just hang in there.’
Bumping the rear truck door closed with his hip, Warner noticed a shiny square of red-and-white paper in the dirt by the front tire. With a frown, he returned the bags to the truck while Bella, with her nubby tail, disappeared around the shop’s back corner. She must have to ‘go’. He picked up the odd paper on the ground near the truck. Tacky, it clung to his fingers as he turned over the thin wax-paper wrapper of a Cherry Mountain candy bar. What the heck?
Warner felt his stomach sour and jerked his head up to search the outside of the workshop more closely. Folding the wrapper and stuffing it in his pocket, he noticed a light gray square leaning against the workshop wall, partially hidden by a wild black raspberry bush; it was the screen from the small window above.
With an adrenaline rush, he sprung back from the workshop, half expecting a figure to leap from the dark at any moment.
“Bella, come!”
When the dog padded around the corner of the workshop with her nose hung low, sniffing the ground, he noticed the door to the nearby well house was ajar. His alarm grew. I’m not poking around in the dark unarmed. After retrieving his hunting knife from the truck and with Bella at his side, he stepped cautiously over to the well house. Using the toe of his boot, he kicked the door open. He explored the four-foot square interior with the light; it was unharmed. Releasing his breath, he turned to face the darkness and was confronted by a second open door to an outhouse-sized generator building. The flashlight caught the gunmetal gray of a heavy padlock and a half-inch steel cable lying on the ground.
My generator’s gone!
Distress flushed through Warner, mixing with an unexpected tremor of anguish that was out of proportion to the missing equipment. Suppressed emotions dislodged and his eyesight blurred. After a single gasp of sorrow, he brushed back his tears. What would Dad think if he saw me acting like a baby?
Taking a deep breath, he wrestled for composure. The bastard ate a candy bar while he stole my generator! A spark of anger replaced his heartache and he shook his head, equally furious at the littering; it was a violation more damning for its carelessness.
Picking up the lock that bolt cutters had severed, he angrily tossed it on the floor inside the building. After slamming the doors to the well house and generator building shut, he circled the workshop looking for more signs of the thieves. All he found were tire tracks and gouges in the dirt where someone had drug the generator to load it. As heavy as the generator is—or was—there must have been two men with a truck. Other than the fact one of the thieves liked Cherry Mountain candy bars, he was unable to conclude anything more.
Could they still be in the workshop?
Approaching the workshop entrance, he unlocked the door. Bracing himself, he pushed the door wide. After scanning the interior of the lower room with the flashlight, he nervously held the knife at-the-ready and climbed the stairs to the dark loft above. At the top, he shined the light, exposing the full length of the small sleeping space. It was empty and untouched.
Beginning to calm down, he returned to the lower floor. With more attention to what should be there, he was relieved to find the electrical equipment with its small battery bank untouched. Powering on the system for overhead light, he accounted for the remainder of his tools and supplies, still in place on the shelves. Why didn’t they enter the workshop? Did something or someone scare them off?
Warner wrestled aside his self-pity and prepared to drive out and report the theft when he stopped. There’s nothing the sheriff can do tonight. I’ll drive into town first thing in the morning. He tossed the knife onto the tabletop. Kendra’s going to go ballistic over this.
Taking a deep breath, he was determined to enjoy the rest of the evening despite the break-in. Sure—just look at the window screen. They’re coming back.
I only hope it’s not tonight.