nine

JACKSON’S PARTY STORE was located on Townline Road, just south of the river, surrounded by forest and not much else. Outsiders would think it an unusual spot for a business. But to the locals, it was a vital resource for their beer and lottery tickets. Michael had followed the river northeast for several hours until he started to recognize the surroundings and knew he was close to the store. Despite running for his life, he felt his stomach growl with hunger pains that soon started to consume him more than the discomfort of the bruises on his face and body. Plus, he knew he needed some provisions if he was going to have any luck at outlasting his pursuers.

Jackson’s was run by Old Man Jackson, and from what all the people in Coldwater knew, Old Man Jackson had always been old. He had been sitting behind the counter of the dilapidated store, ringing up people’s purchases since the beginning of time. His eyesight had grown bad, his change-making skills had slowed, and his memory had deteriorated. All of these things Michael saw as to his advantage. He did not want to risk being seen, but he also knew he could not risk running for days without food. Even the nasty food offered at Jackson’s.

Michael made his way through the woods, leaving the river behind him. He felt nervous, as if he was leaving his safety blanket behind, but he ventured out regardless.

He came up to Townline Road and crouched in the ditch across from the store. He could see one car in the parking lot. He waited.

He pulled off his right boot and felt under the insole. It was still there. A ten-dollar bill, stained and drowned in river water and sweat. His hiding spot for valuable things. A lesson learned in prison was now the only thing that could offer aid to the hunger pains in his belly.

Soon, a woman and a small child came out, got into the vehicle, and left the parking lot, heading south toward town. The road was empty. Michael gathered himself, crossed the stretch of asphalt, and ducked into the store.

The chime on the door jingled in the still air like a coffin bell in an abandoned cemetery. Its tingling subsided and was replaced by the low volume of a radio set to a news station. From his peripheral vision, Michael could see Old Man Jackson leaning over a newspaper by the register.

Michael turned right and hurried toward the coolers lined up against the back wall. He grabbed a couple liters of water, his dry mouth begging him for a sip. He grabbed some random packages of nuts and granola from the adjoining aisle. The barest of resources, but they would keep him going.

He caught his reflection in a Bud Light mirror hanging on the wall and stared at a stranger’s features from behind a mask. He looked awful. The bruising on his face was much worse than he anticipated. His long hair was clumped and sweaty, his skin a Monet of color. He had the appearance of a crazed man looking through the axe-busted shards of a bathroom door. Michael turned from his image and walked to the counter.

Old Man Jackson was no longer there.

He stepped past the counter and inched toward the doorway to the back room. He could hear Jackson talking nervously.

He was on the phone.

“I tell you, he’s here.”

Michael could not make out the muffled voice responding on the phone’s earpiece.

“He just walked in. I know it’s him. Unless there’s another person you all tried to beat up last night.”

More inaudible chatter.

“How am I supposed to keep him here? I’m not part of this,” Old Man Jackson said with whispered urgency. “Okay, okay. Just get here already. Hurry.”

He hung up the phone.

Michael darted away from the door and hid next to the closest cooler near the register. He could hear Jackson fumbling around the back room, the sound of several small yet weighted items fall onto the tile floor, a distinct pump of a shotgun.

Old Man Jackson emerged from the back room, weapon in hand. He felt even older all of a sudden, if that were possible, and he moved like a man aware of his own frailty. The gun was old, one that had not been used since he had gone by the name of Little Boy Jackson. The shotgun felt unusually heavy for his withered arms.

“Michael? Is that you? Michael?”

No answer. Jackson took another step. “Michael?”

He tried to stop the tremolo in his voice . . . fear mixed with old age. “Now, Michael, don’t do anything foolish. Haywood will be here in a couple minutes and he will get this whole thing sorted out. Until then . . . just—”

There was a flash of movement from his left. Michael appeared like an apparition and grabbed the shotgun, while an invisible hand pushed Jackson up against the wall.

Jackson grabbed for his chest. The shock poured over him like water, and he gasped for air. Most days the pace of the store was too much for his frail condition. A gunfight was enough to put him in his grave. The pain in his chest spread, down his arm, into his throat. He gaped at Michael, tried desperately to speak.

“Mich . . . Mi . . .”

Michael stared at him as if he were a specimen under glass. Transfixed.

Jackson slumped to the floor, his legs splayed before him. “Michael . . . ple . . . please . . . help me,” he begged. His eyes wincing with the crashing waves of pain. He was dying while Michael just watched.

Michael stepped back, the shotgun in his hand. Jackson watched him grab supplies off the counter and stuff them into various pockets. He looked back at the old man.

“Haywood’s coming . . . ,” Michael said as he turned toward the door, “he’ll get this sorted out.”