I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River Read online

  “Make me.”

  “Don’t tempt me, pal.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “You are.”

  “You just threatened me.”

  “Don’t push me, bro. You’ve got no idea.”

  “So make me stop.”

  “You don’t even know, man. You got no idea who you’re messing with.”

  Ryan said, “I know you’re stupid. That much is pretty clear.”

  “Yeah? I’m stupid?”

  “You look it.”

  “Big talker. You and your pajamas.”

  “Move this car, chief.”

  “I’m meeting somebody, okay?”

  “You said you’d make me go. I’m waiting.”

  The guy took a long breath. He stared ahead and tried to compose himself.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m not looking for trouble here.”

  Ryan said, “Waiting for a friend or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”

  The guy took a calming drag on his cigarette and said, “Bro, I really don’t want trouble.”

  Ryan said, “Trouble’s my middle name.”

  “I don’t have time for this, sir.”

  “Sir? Now we’re getting fancy.”

  “Just leave me alone. Please.”

  “Get out and make me.”

  Another deep breath. Probably counting silently to ten. Ryan recognized the predicament. He had been instructed plenty of times himself to count to ten when he was feeling angry.

  It rarely worked.

  “What happened to your front plate?” Ryan pressed the guy.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Lost it in Florida?”

  “So?”

  “Alligators.”

  “What?”

  “The plate, stupid.”

  “Don’t call me stupid.”

  “Where’s your front plate?”

  “What do you care?”

  “You see alligators all the time down there?”

  “Sure. Alligators.”

  “You sure have some Mickey Mouse ears on you, Mr. Florida.”

  “I’m warning you, man.”

  Ryan said, “I’m warning you. This is a no smoking area.”

  “Me? You are.”

  “I know the owners. You’re going down for this, pal.”

  The guy tried to take another deep breath, to calm himself.

  It didn’t work.

  He exhaled with an angry grunt and started opening his door. Ryan slammed the door shut. The guy tried again and Ryan slammed it again. They repeated this process ten or twelve times, a little harder with each repetition. The guy pushed harder and Ryan slammed it shut harder still. They got into a nice rhythm, putting some muscle and weight into it. The little Chevy was rocking and swaying, while the guy trapped inside it grew angrier by the second.

  A battle for door supremacy.

  “Hey, it’s a rental!” the guy finally barked.

  “Don’t cry,” Ryan said. “You got insurance, right?”

  “You’re dead,” the guy growled. He gave up on the door and seemed to be gathering up energy for some kind of big effort that would end the standoff. Maybe reaching for a weapon.

  Ryan said, “Careful, chief.” Then he tossed his half-gone cigarette at the guy. It flipped and rolled down the guy’s sweatshirt to his lap, into the folds of his jeans. Ryan stood back and watched the expression of terror spread across the guy’s face, his mouth hanging open. He set instantly to jerking and flailing all around in a panic. Trying desperately to spot the little white tube and grab it up by the cool end without sizzling his fingers.

  It wasn’t as easy as one might guess. Cigarette’s lack mass and firmness for a solid grip. They’re delicate, requiring much more finesse than force. This guy sure wasn’t having much luck in the finesse department. Panic had taken over. His legs were kicking in the Chevy’s small foot well, feet tangling with the pedals, his right knee hitting the center console. His hands were flying all over the place and he was grunting and groaning in distress, sort of like a rooting pig. Probably worried about his clothes, and more so about the upholstery of the rental Cruze he might get stuck paying for. Maybe he was getting burned.

  Ryan couldn’t help thinking that most of the trouble could’ve been avoided in an older vehicle with a practical bench seat.

  More wiggle room.

  In sum it looked like the guy was trying to perform some rapid-paced new yoga moves while confined to a small area. Like he was inventing something bold and new and experimental and progressive. Or maybe like a swarm of wasps had beset him. Or like he was trying to tell the world something through some strange interpretive dance involving a lot of hearty pelvic thrusts. Either way it was quite a show. The little Chevy was really rocking on its springs. The guy was cursing up a storm, for sure getting angrier. Furious, actually. And in his fury he made a mistake, as emotionally unsettled people often do.

  He dropped his own cigarette. Which was a very small thing in the grand scheme. But small as it was, it really made things a lot worse for him. Now he had two sizzling little cherries to contend with. Double the trouble instead of double the fun. One was already more than enough.

  Time to get serious.

  He flung the driver’s door open frantically, leaning way to his right and kicking it hard with his left foot. The door bounced back fast on its hinge and slammed his shin as he poked his foot out to the ground. The guy howled and retracted the foot and leaned back and kicked the door again, softer, only enough to keep it open. Then he heaved himself up and out of the car in a spastic motion, one big convulsion. Spun fast and dropped to his knees, leaning in over the driver’s seat. Grabbed up the cigarettes and dropped them on the pavement. Littering again. He brushed the ashes from the seat with brisk sweeping strokes, noting the various burns. Then he stood up, chin tucked, traps tense. He turned and faced Ryan. Brushed the ashes from his sweatshirt and jeans. Wiped some drool from his chin and then briefly checked an apparent burn on his finger, giving it a quick shake. His ball cap had been lost in all the excitement and now his forehead looked sweaty. Chest and shoulders heaving. His face wasn’t pasty white anymore. It was all red with rage.

  “Asshole,” he growled.

  Ryan smiled and said, “I tried to warn you.” He was standing safely back a few yards, pointing a .380 pistol at the guy. A pretty little Kimber subcompact.

  ***

  Chief Clare pulled in just after the conclusion of the cigarette incident. He blocked the rented Chevy in the alley and hoisted himself up out of his cruiser. There was a low groan from his vicinity that might have been the cruiser’s aging door hinge, might have been the chief accidentally calling some ducks. It was hard to be sure. The cruiser’s suspension leveled out and a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin fluttered away from the chief’s shirt and went off riding the breeze, gracefully, sort of like the feather in Forrest Gump. Ryan watched it go as Chief Clare walked over, all exaggerated steps, leaning way to one side and then the other, tugging at his pants and his belt.

  “This better be good, Matt,” he said. “I was right in the middle of my coffee break.”

  The guy from the rental Chevy was still very angry, but he handled himself pretty well before the chief. Like he had been in that position before. And partly because Chief Clare was fair and respectful to him. The guy had a legitimate New Hampshire driver’s license that was expired, as well as a fake one that was not expired. He explained that he was driving the rented car because his own car, technically his mother’s, wasn’t running well. His address was in Nashua, an hour south by highway.

  His business up in Fall River? Not much to say about that. Mostly garbled muttering and stammering.

  The chief plopped back down into the cruiser to run the guy. Turned out he had an outstanding warrant. On top of that he was reported to be joyriding in a rental car instead of picking up the client who had actually paid for it. He ha
d used the false ID to gain employment at the rental place. Quite a plan. Chief Clare allowed those details to be heard, but he was professional enough not to mention the cause of the warrant in front of the growing crowd in the market’s parking lot.

  Ryan kept his gun pointed in the guy’s direction through his coat’s big side pocket. A few times the guy almost looked like he was about to fight or bolt, right up until Chief Clare slapped the cuffs on him. He knew he could easily outrun a guy looking like Santa Clause without the beard, no problem. But Ryan’s presence seriously complicated things. He couldn’t outrun a bullet. In the end he complied quietly and got a ride to lockup.

  People were all standing around watching.

  It started when Mrs. Brown from the motel came out and was talking with Meredith Glines. Then Mrs. Graham from the greenhouse at the nursery joined them. Then more people showed up, exiting buildings, pulling over in their cars. The pastor from the church. A volunteer firemen with lights on his pickup. A state trooper. Some guy driving a flatbed full of portable toilets. Another guy driving a Budweiser truck. It was almost like the 4th of July. Half the town was there.

  “Asshole,” the guy muttered to Ryan on his way to the trooper’s cruiser waiting to transport him.

  Ryan nodded to him and then walked away south from the market. Past the motel and the cemetery and the small law office. To Dunkin’ Donuts.

  America is said to run on Dunkin’.

  Matt Ryan sure did.

  He went in for a medium regular, hot. In a recyclable paper cup with a cardboard heat sleeve. That way no one would try taking him out with a sniper rifle for accepting a Styrofoam cup.

  He stepped to the counter and the girl on the other side said, “What happened with the chief? He ran out with his cinnamon roll and forgot his coffee.”

  “Just some idiot making trouble at Hometown.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “It is now. The guy learned not to smoke at the market.”

  She made a face and then nodded and said, “Medium regular?”

  “And a glazed stick.”

  “We only have a few chocolate ones left at the moment. That okay?”

  “I didn’t hear a word after chocolate.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Two left,” she said.

  “Fine, I’ll take both.”

  Chapter 3

  He loitered by the picnic tables behind Dunkin’ Donuts for a while, eating the donuts slowly, enjoying them while looking down through the woods, the trees now bare, seeing the Merrimack River. It was a nice spot, all to himself. It smelled like coffee and donuts and crisp air.

  When the snack was gone he left his coffee on a picnic table and went through the awkward motions of discarding the sticky bag and wax paper. The trick was trying to do so without touching the swinging door of the trash can with his bare hand. He hated things like that. Never knowing who or what had touched it last.

  Vaguely he kept hoping that the Dunkin’ powers that be would upgrade to newer trash cans, with an open top instead of the swinging thing. The kind with the somewhat conical top, to keep the weather out. But he figured they never would, because the gulls and bald eagles from the river would always be into those sort of trash cans. Tourists on camping trips and ski trips would be snapping photos of eagles perched atop trash cans. Posting them to Facebook. Making New Hampshire look like some sort of backward landfill.

  No big deal. Outdated trash cans were a fair tradeoff for living in a nice quiet place like Fall River.

  He walked home casually, sipping his coffee. It was a cool day. He enjoyed being outdoors in cool weather. He was feeling a little self-conscious about the pajamas, after the argument with the Chevy Cruze guy, and he was thinking of going home and pulling on some jeans.

  Not seriously. Just a passing thought that came and went.

  The chief passed him, on his way back to DD to reclaim his coffee cup. They waved to each other and carried on their separate ways.

  At the crosswalk before the motel Ryan crossed Main and went slowly up the storage place’s driveway. To his left the nursery and greenhouse looked pretty in the sunshine. He stayed left at the driveway’s intersection and went up to the office. He looked down the other road, now to his right, at all the metal storage units. The place was dead, as usual.

  That was fine. Nice and quiet. All the rents being paid. No trouble. Just the way he liked it.

  But not the way it would stay.

  ***

  Rosie Clare shot up out of her chair when Ryan stepped into the office. The chair smacked the wall and she steadied herself on the desk and tried to turn around to see what was happening behind her. She ended up a bit tangled and flustered. Then she plunked back down in the chair and looked up at him.

  “That guy had a gun under the seat,” she said. Her eyes were big and her mouth was a surprised circle. A letter O. “Uncle Dan just stopped and told me. You could have been killed, Matt.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Almost.”

  “The Falcons almost won the Super Bowl.”

  “This is serious,” she said. “My uncle said he stole that Chevy. Yesterday was his first day on the job at the rental place. This morning he took off with the car.”

  “No promotions for him.”

  She cringed a little as she said, “Don’t get mad.”

  “About?”

  “I called your mom and told her. She’s been calling your cell. I can hear it ringing in the apartment.”

  “You called her?”

  Rosie nodded regretfully, trying to pull her head back like a turtle retreating into its shell.

  “Why?”

  “I was freaked out.”

  “Rosie …”

  She took a long sip of Pepsi, set the can down. Said, “I’m sorry, Matt.”

  “No big deal.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll survive.”

  “I panicked.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Do I look crazed with rage?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, then. Everything’s fine.”

  Rosie seemed to accept that. So Ryan went through the doorway at the left rear of the office, to his apartment.

  Sharky the maniac was waiting in there for him.

  ***

  The maniac in question was a Belgian malinois, sometimes referred to as a land shark. A high-strung psychopath of a dog. A four-legged vessel of wrath in the tradition of the fire-eyed hound of the Baskervilles. Kicked out of two K-9 programs for being too aggressive. He attacked the cops and the other dogs and the vet, and even the mayor of a small city down in Massachusetts. No one could say why. For whatever reason Sharky opened his little puppy eyes angry at the world. Like he had been conceived by the union of a wolf and a tornado, and sent forth from the storm to spread havoc.

  By the time Sharky was six months old he was uncontrollable. He’d fight Godzilla or King Kong, given the chance. Anyone at all. He didn’t care. Nothing intimidated him. He destroyed toys and soccer balls as if they were tissue paper. He was nearly put to sleep.

  Then, fate intervened, and he was rescued by Kerry Jamison from the Barking Lot, just up the street from Fall River Storage. Some brave volunteer drove Sharky up to Fall River raging in a reinforced cage. Beach towels had to be draped over the cage while unloading him from the transport van, even after the sedative they’d used to get him into the cage. Otherwise the fingers of innocent people would’ve been lost. It was quite a scene.

  The only one who wasn’t intimidated by Sharky, then called Rex, was Matt Ryan. For that reason Sharky respected him, and so responded favorably to him those first few days. Ryan took him home and gave him a new name, and they’d been a team ever since. That was three summers prior.

  ***

  Upon entering the apartment from the office, Ryan wrestled with Sharky for a minute and th
en gave him a treat, a big carrot from the fridge. Sharky loved carrots. He made them disappear like tree limbs being fed into a wood chipper. Gone, just like that. They were good for his teeth, according to Kerry Jamison. So Ryan gave him one or two each day. It was a good routine.

  After the wrestling and the snack they each retired to their own portion of the sectional sofa that took up most of the living room area. The kind that had recliners on each end. Ryan usually slept reclined in his, while Sharky never reclined in his. It was a great sofa. Just the right mixture of firmness and softness. It made a mediocre little apartment feel almost like a luxurious place. It kept them happy, anyway.

  Ryan turned on the TV. A huge thing, top of the line, with a curved screen. He’d acquired it from some guy going through a divorce. The guy stored it with some other things for a few months and then stopped paying the monthly bill. Rosie called him before it lapsed, reminding him that he had a lot of valuable items in the large unit. He told her he didn’t care, as long as his ex-wife didn’t get any of it. Keep it.

  So Ryan kept it. He moved his slightly smaller TV upstairs to the little bedroom and installed the bigger one before the comfy sofa.

  Good deal. No complaints.

  Now he scrolled through his list of recorded shows. Near the top of the list was a two-hour show he’d started watching that morning, a documentary about Alexander the Great. He’d seen plenty of other shows about Alexander, just not this particular one. So he was looking forward to it, hoping it might mention something he’d never heard before about the great warrior.

  He hit play.

  Then his cell phone rang on the coffee table.

  ***

  He leaned forward and picked up the phone. It was his mother calling from his parents’ winter place in Southern California. The total opposite of New England.

  He paused the show and answered the call by saying, “I’m okay, Mom.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Nothing’s on fire. Just sitting here learning about how Alexander used his superior mind to steamroll his enemies.”

  “Matthew, this is serious. You could have been shot.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Nobody got hurt.”