BARE HUNTER

Chapter 5

Cop cars were lined up in front of the Closing Time Bar & Grille when we arrived for Phyllis’s nightcap. A sour taste crept into my throat and my stomach threatened to lob its alcoholic contents into my lap. “Come on, Phyllis, let’s find somewhere else. This is creepy as hell,” I said.

“I wonder what happened? Maybe they got robbed,” she exclaimed. “Let’s go in and see what’s going on.”

I got cold chills up and down my spine and said, “The cops don’t need people trampling all over their crime scene. Let’s just get out of here.”

“No. If you don’t want to come with me, I’ll call an Uber and get home myself.”

“Have at it, Phyl. I’m not going in,” I said, sticking to my guns. I didn’t care whether I got lucky tonight with Phyllis, but something told me that going into a place with a dozen cops would not end up lucky for me. A creepy tickle in the back of my mind assured me of that. All day long, I had been looking over my shoulder, trying to catch the fleeting thoughts before they left my brain.

I watched Phyllis push her way into the bar in her short mini skirt and tight sweater that would have looked great on a woman twenty years younger. No big loss, I thought, as I turned around in the bar’s parking lot and drove home by way of my favorite running spot. Compared to the tacky clubs we’d been at all night, the sight of the cool woods and the quiet scene called to me. I wasn’t dressed for running but my backpack always held a spare pair of sweats and my Saconys. I crawled into the backseat and pulled the pack out from under the front seat, where it had fallen after my last run.

I almost passed out when I began pulling out my running clothes. Everything was covered in blood. Something like shit was smeared on my sweats. I took a sniff. Yep. Shit. What the heck? Did someone get into my car and put these things in my backpack while I was in one of the bars? They were my clothes, though. I felt a migraine coming on and knew I had about fifteen minutes to get home and take my meds before puking my guts out. I didn’t know what to do with the clothes. I sure didn’t want them in my car, stinking it up, and I didn’t want to be found with blood-stained garments.

Then, I got an idea. I hoisted the bag carefully over my shoulder, making sure not to smear anything on myself, and quickly jogged down the running path to the stream, which had been bubbling swiftly after all the rain in recent weeks. I checked the clothes and pack, making sure no identification marks were on them, and threw them, one by one, into the creek, watching them rush downstream with the current. The migraine was intensifying, and I had to rest on a tree stump to keep from passing out.

I wobbled back to the car and drove home slowly, pulling over twice to vomit on the side of the road. When I finally arrived home, I turned the medicine cabinet upside down, looking for my Rizatriptan. After scattering the contents on the bathroom floor, I remembered I had to take two last night because the first one did nothing for me before bed. The bottle was on my nightstand. I swallowed one pill dry, to make the crushing pain go away. My head felt as if it was in a vice, and my stomach continued to roil, as I shut the lights off and closed my eyes, begging for relief.

The migraines had begun after my third deployment to Afghanistan had gone sideways. The VA doctors assured me they were temporary and would probably go away once I returned home. They didn’t know, however, that I would be returning home to Sandy, who could make anyone insane. Fragments of incoherent thoughts and terrifying visions assailed my dreams, as I slept fitfully until the alarm clock rang at six. It was a relief to wake up and leave my nightmares behind. I showered the evening’s torture off me and dressed for another fun day at the office. Before leaving, I grabbed another pair of running shoes and an old pair of sweatpants, in case I needed a run after work.

I pulled through the drive-up at Dunkin Donuts and drove away, stuffing my face with a bagel and cream cheese, and washing it down with a large coffee.

On my desk was a hand-written note from Greg:

‘In my office. Now.’

Shit, this wasn’t good. What a way to begin the day. When I walked into Greg’s office, he was on the desk phone, probably talking with someone from HR, asking to get my file so he could fire me.

He glanced up and motioned me to sit down. I took one of the chairs in front of his desk, which was deliberately smaller than his chair, so he could look down on his victims before declaring judgment on them.

After he hung up, he rubbed his hands down his tired-looking face before saying, “Listen, Ted, I wanted to thank you for getting all the financials together so quickly yesterday. Great work.”

I did a double-take. “What? I thought you were going to fire me for something. Jeez. Next time, be more specific when you leave me a note,” I laughed.

“No. Seriously? Why on earth would you think that? You’re doing great and you’re making me look good, which makes Pete look good and the owner happy.”

“Okay, then. Well, I’m glad,” I said with a relieved sigh.

“Hey, you got plans for lunch? I have some things I want to bounce off you about how we do the financials.”

“No, no. I’d be happy to. Where?” I asked.

“A little place I found in Big Wood. You’ll love it. I’ll drive. Meet me at eleven,” he said and dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

Nice. I passed Phyllis on the way back to my desk. “Phyl, what did you find out last night about the Closing Time?”

“The barmaid night manager was missing. She didn’t call in and no one had seen her since she left her shift the day before yesterday. The bank bag with all the money was gone too,” she whispered.

“Man. Do they think she stole the money and took off?”

“Yeah, that’s what they’re going on. There should have been a couple thousand in the night bag, and her car has disappeared.”

“Why would someone uproot their whole life for a couple thousand dollars? That doesn’t make sense,” I said, shaking my head and walking to my desk.

Something gnawed at me that I couldn’t quite place. A certain familiarity about the bar I left Phyllis at last night. Whenever I thought I had it nailed down, the thought drifted past me. This unsettling feeling had begun back a few months ago when the VA doctors added Zoloft to my meds to battle night terrors and anxiety caused by PTSD. No longer was I waking up screaming and sweating at night, but the memory gaps during the day were surreal.