Chapter 12

Clay opened his eyes. His head pounded. Nausea swept through him. He stifled the urge to throw up, hoping the pain in his head would go away. It didn’t. It swelled bigger and bigger until he could almost see it—a fiery red ball pulsing behind his eyes.

He sat up and took a moment to gather himself. Dark as it was, there was a soft illumination from nearby light poles. He glanced at the light and immediately regretted it. It felt like a welding torch had burned a hole in his skull. He groaned, holding his head.

After a few cleansing breaths, the pain receded enough for him to look around. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. A Fast Stop grocery bag lay on the ground next to him. He grabbed the bag and saw a splatter of blood on it. He stood, trying to piece together what had happened. About twenty feet away, he saw a body on the ground. He walked over. It was the convenience store clerk from the Fast Stop. Clay gave the clerk’s shoulder a light kick. “C’mon man, get up.”

The clerk didn’t move. Didn’t even moan.

Clay swallowed hard.

Was the clerk dead?

He reached down and eased a gun out of the man’s hand. His headache screamed. It took a moment before he could examine the gun. It smelled like it had just been fired. The barrel was still warm. He dropped it, took off his Red Sox cap and saw blood on it. He touched his head and looked at his fingertips, and then wiped blood off on his pants. He jammed his cap into his back pocket.

Damn.

Touching his head again, he winced. It hurt, but he knew it wasn’t bad. Either a bullet had glanced off his head, or he’d split his head when he fell. He could deal with it. He wiped his hand on his pants and looked down at the clerk, his mind swimming.

If he’d shot this man dead, he’d be in prison for the rest of his life.

The clerk’s lips parted. He inhaled a shaky breath.

Clay kneeled. The pain in his head spiked. He waited for it to recede and then rubbed the clerk’s chest. “C’mon man. Get up. You’re okay.”

The clerk gasped, then drew in another short breath. Clay lifted his hand from the clerk’s chest. It was covered in blood.

“Ah hell,” he said, wiping the clerk’s blood on the ground.

From what Clay could tell, this guy wasn’t much longer for this world. He rolled him onto his side and searched him. There was nothing on him but a wallet and a watch. Taking them was a bad thing to do—Clay knew that—but he also knew that he needed money to survive. And by the looks of this clerk, he wasn’t going to be needing a watch or a wallet. The clerk moaned as Clay pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and then unstrapped his watch. Then Clay gently rolled the clerk to his back and patted his shoulder. “Sorry brother, but if our situations were reversed, I’d expect the same. You ain’t gonna be around much longer. But I am. And as long as I gotta stay here, I gotta eat. Say hi to the angels for me.”

Watch in hand, Clay stood. He stuffed the watch and wallet in his pockets, then picked up the bag of money and his gun. He stuck the gun in his jeans behind his back, then started walking.

His phone buzzed. He cursed and answered it.

“Freeman, is that you?”

Clay felt his stomach flop. It was Vincent. He thought about hanging up but decided there was no running from this. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and explained the situation. “Mr. Vincent, I was just about to call. That clerk ran after me. He shot at me. I shot back. Now he’s lying here in the woods.”

“What do you mean, ‘lying in the woods?’”

A trickle of blood ran into Clay’s eye. He wiped it with his sleeve. “I think he grazed me or something—my head’s bleeding. But he’s worse. It looks like he’s dying.”

“That’s too bad,” said Vincent. He lowered his voice. “He should have thought about his wife and kid before he chased you. The important thing now is to keep your eye on the ball. You got the money, right?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Anyone see you at the store?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You positive? And don’t lie to me.”

“No one saw me. I swear.”

Vincent stayed quiet long enough for Clay to wonder if the connection was broken, and then Vincent’s raspy voice broke the silence.

“Bring my money back to the store. Don’t come in the front. Go around back, through the alley. Don’t let anyone see you.”

“Can we do this tomorrow?” Clay said. “Like I said, my head’s bleeding and it hurts. I think I need to go home and lie down.”

Vincent’s voice changed. All the rasp was gone. Each sentence was clear as a bell. “I don’t care if your brains are leaking out a hole in your head. I want my money. If I have to come find you—" He paused and cleared his throat. “Listen, there’s nothing to worry about. Just get over here, give me my money, and then you can go home. But if I don’t see you in a half hour, I’m coming to find you.”

The line went dead. Clay stuck his cell in his pocket. He touched his temple and looked at the blood on his fingertips. He wiped his hand on his jeans and began to walk.

Each step made his head throb. He wished he could go home and get some sleep. But Vincent had to get his money tonight or things were going to get worse. He glanced over his shoulder at the clerk bleeding out on the ground. His grip on the bag of money turned his knuckles white as he walked, his lips moving in a silent prayer.

God, get me through this, and I promise I’ll never do nothing stupid again. From this day forward, I’ll be a good man.