Willow's Run

By Robert Bockstael

Meet Alcima ‘The Willow’ Willoughby. Olympic volleyball player. Six foot six in socks.
After a crippling injury on the volleyball court causes the U.S. to lose gold at Beijing, Alcima’s life spirals into addiction and an abusive marriage. In a rare moment of clarity, she escapes.
In her husband’s two-million-dollar RV.
Almost across the country and out of his grasp, Alcima is stopped for a minor traffic infraction. When she pulls off the road, the massive motorhome rolls over, setting off a chain of events that conspire to trap Alcima in a nearby small town during a week of violent rainstorms.
Holed up in an abandoned campground, hunger forces Alcima to venture out, where she meets a local librarian, Booker Thompson. Attracted by Alcima’s fearless nature and offbeat humor, Booker enlists a few of his close friends to help her hide from the dangerous man hot on her trail.
Booker leads Alcima on a harrowing journey to his secluded island, where they tumble into an intense affair. But she soon discovers an even worse fate than being found by her revenge obsessed husband. Uncovering long buried secrets about the town – and Booker - she is inexorably drawn down into a terrifying subterranean world where she comes face to face with her fears and her one, tragic physical flaw.
When she is betrayed, there is only one thing she can do.
Run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Bockstael
• Release date: Jun 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778011221

Robert Bockstael

Robert Bockstael has written for theater, television, and film, and his short fiction appears in literary magazines across North America. Willow’s Run is his debut novel. His next book, She Carried the Sea, is set in Nova Scotia, Canada.An award-winning actor with a forty-year career, Robert Bockstael has played lead roles in a multitude of television series and films, as well as being a prolific cartoon voice actor, narrator, and stage actor. He is a teacher and a sought after private acting coach and has worked as a librarian in a small, rural library. Bockstael lives in Ottawa, Canada. Please visit his website at robertbockstael.com and find his Author Page on Facebook and Instagram. His list of film and television credits can be found on IMDb.

Book preview

Prologue

Rain.

Cascading down the brick buildings of the small lakeside town, it rushed along Main Street’s gutters and plunged down the steep hill to Bridge Street. Fall River was black and cold. Hard winds were gusting across its surface and racing upwards making wild pendulums of the town’s sole traffic light, cable-suspended above the intersection. Second story windows reflected the funhouse splashes of red, yellow and green.

The spring night was cold and the streets were deserted; the north eastern states still dozing, reluctant to be roused from their post-winter slumber. Huge iron lampposts straddled the sidewalks like dark giants, their shoulders hunched against the deluge, faces down, straining to push their light through silver-black sheets of rain.

At the Fall River Savings and Loan, a well-dressed man in his early seventies stepped out into the storm, grabbing the brim of his hat to keep it from flying away. Coat tails flapping, he braced a foot against the door and locked up. Next door, at the Bijou Theater, he ducked through the curtain of water falling from the old-fashioned marquee announcing a Hitchcock double feature, The Birds and Rear Window, burned-out bulbs making the old building’s facade look ominous.

He pulled open the heavy glass door and stepped into the overheated lobby, his soaked Oxfords leaving footprints on the worn carpeting. Fishing a damp ticket from deep inside his coat pocket, he handed it to Jimmy the usher, whose pimply forehead complemented his worn brown uniform, complete with piping, braided epaulets and clip-on bow tie.

Just in time for the second feature, eh Jimmy?

Jimmy tore the ticket, threw half into a near empty fishbowl and handed back the other half. First show’s gonna be over soon, Mr. O’Connor. The lady’s about to get pecked. He went back to studying a dog-eared private eye paperback.

Thanks. Alex O’Connor peered into the theater through the circular glass portal. Light from the movie screen glistened on his wet face. Tippi Hedren was stepping into an attic room where a swarm of birds awaited.

Removing his hat, he ran his fingers through his thick white hair and went to push open the door, smudged from countless popcorn-buttery hands. Suddenly, a low resonant rumble rose up from the bowels of the old theater, and the floor vibrated.

What the hell? Jimmy said, standing up fast.

Alex and Jimmy stood frozen in place for a long moment, looking at each other, listening.

Whatever that was, Alex said. It sounded deep.

Inside the theater the soundtrack built. The birds attacked and tore at Tippi. The music hit a crescendo, ending abruptly. Bloodied and beaten, Tippi fell to the ground.

The building shook again.

Alex shot out a hand to brace himself. The tremor ended as abruptly as it had started.

Go up and get Don, Alex said.

Yes sir.

A thump from below. Bigger and deeper.

Run up straight away Jimmy. Go. I’ll prop open the lobby doors. You’ll be wanting to evacuate the theater. Overhead, a dusty chandelier swayed slightly, bulbs blinking. Seeing that, Jimmy raced up the curving staircase two steps at a time. On the landing, a small alcove contained a plaster statue of a semi-nude woman balancing an urn. As was his habit, Jimmy brushed her breast as he reached through her crooked arm and turned a concealed knob. The wall swung inward; it was the door to the projection booth that accessed the theater’s cramped office as well as Don Anderson’s apartment.

Jimmy found himself face to face with Mr. Anderson, owner of the Bijou Theater. I’m on it, son. Movie’s shut off. I’ll go down and make the announcement in the house.

Bump.

Fourth time it’s done that, Jimmy said, voice cracking.

Look at me, Jimmy. It’s fine. The old gal’s just squirming in the mud from all the rain. He patted Jimmy’s bony shoulder. Nothing to worry about. You clear the balcony. Let’s get folks out safe and calm, okay?

Jimmy nodded. They split up. Don arrived at the bottom of the stairs where Alex had the Bijou’s lobby doors propped open.

Thanks, Alex.

Would you like me to stick around?

Don called over his shoulder, Nope, you just get yourself on home.

Alex pulled his collar up against the wild night. Beneath the marquee, he stopped and looked back. A long moment passed before the patrons came rushing out onto the street, speculating in hushed tones while fumbling with coats and umbrellas. Alex pulled down the brim of his hat, turned, and stepped out into the storm.

It was a small audience due to the weather. Don had the building clear in minutes. He was closing the front doors when Jimmy returned, out of breath. Balcony’s empty, Mr. Anderson.

Good. Follow me. Don Anderson locked the lobby doors and headed back into the theater.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The monthly meeting was over, and as the board members filed out the main door into the wild night, Booker Thompson settled in his chair at the circulation desk. With the exception of two scruffy teens loafing in the Youth Area, there was only one other patron in the library, a regular, dozing in the Reading Room near the long sealed up fir eplace.

It irked Booker that most of the board members were against restoring the old fireplace. Common sense dictated that fire had no business in a library, but if a sealed gas insert were installed, it would be safe. Plus, it would bring warmth and atmosphere to the already cozy Reading Room, adding a certain cachet. That, in turn, would attract more patrons and be a feather in his cap as librarian.

He had loved the Fall River Library since he was a child, when he’d developed a fascination with the building itself, finding it both beautiful and mysterious.

It was a Carnegie Library. A hulking Victorian brick structure with high windows and white marble lintels. Everywhere were mullions, pilasters, crown mouldings, oak panelled walls and wide plank floors. Out front, the grand staircase was flanked by two ornate iron posts topped with frosted white globes on which Public Library was stenciled in black lettering. High above were chimneys over a green copper roof. A round stained-glass window cast multicolored light into the Great Room, creating a church-like atmosphere.

At the turn of the twentieth century, Andrew Carnegie, the American billionaire, donated vast sums of money to towns and cities around the world to build public libraries. An application could be made to the Carnegie Foundation and if their criteria were met, monies were provided.

Though the Fall River Public Library was modest by modern standards of size to patron usage, it had been in constant use since its construction. Booker knew that fewer than half of the Carnegie Libraries still stood, and of those, many had undergone such significant renovations they were barely recognizable. Still, they all functioned as originally intended, as living breathing testaments to a community’s desire to improve itself.

Excuse me.

Booker looked up from his computer screen. How can I help?

The woman standing at the counter was somewhere between thirty and forty. She was weathered, warmly dressed in worn clothes. She wore no jewelry. Her voice was soft.

I wondered if I might get a library card, she said with a tentative smile.

Accustomed to negative responses, Booker thought.

I can help you with that, he said, rising from his desk. As he approached, she retreated almost imperceptibly. Flinched. Are you a resident of Fall River?

Yes. I was away a long time, but I’m living here again.

Do you have some ID?

She frowned. Her gaze lingered on Booker’s face a moment. She looked around and then back at him, her eyes bright in her tanned, lined face. She made a pretense of searching for something in her purse that he knew wasn’t there. He could tell this woman once carried a driver’s license, a credit card or two, but not anymore. She’d fallen on hard times and was trying to get back on her feet. He heard the distinct rattle of pills in plastic containers from inside the purse. Booker lifted his finger as if something had just occurred to him, something that could alleviate the embarrassment of her current plight. Tell me, were you ever a member at this library? It doesn’t matter how long ago.

When I was little, she said. I always loved it here.

Then your registration will still be on file. He gestured to the card catalogue, a large wooden file cabinet near his desk with an engraved brass plaque, Patrons.

She looked doubtful. I was in elementary school. She glanced back toward the front door, her body language suggesting this whole venture might have been a bad idea.

Last name? Booker said, not wanting to lose her.

Wilson. My first name’s Brittany.

W-I-L-S-O-N?

Yes.

Okay.

Booker opened the W drawer and riffled through the cards. He soon located an old card, signed in a little girl’s careful cursive.

He held up the card. Want to see?

Yes, I would. She took it carefully with both hands, studying first one side and then the other.

Here it comes.

She ran her finger lightly across the signature.

They do it every time.

Booker pulled up the membership page on the computer, typed Brittany Wilson into the required field and left the rest blank. Selecting a new plastic bar-coded library card, he handed her a pen and showed her where to sign. Her signature hadn’t changed all that much. He suspected her last name had gone through at least one other incarnation. Asking for both cards back, he re-filed the original and scanned the barcode on the new card.

When you get a chance, come back with something official for identification. Something with your current address, anything at all, and we’ll update your information. No hurry.

She opened her mouth to say something, and stopped. Her eyes moved down to her new library card. Carefully, she put it in her purse. Booker didn’t think he’d get much more out of Brittany Wilson tonight. Baby steps.

I’m Booker Thompson, by the way. The librarian. If you need anything, let me know.

Why?

Why, what?

Why Booker? Is it your real name?

Long story. Maybe some evening when I don’t have so much paperwork, we’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you.

I’d like that.

Welcome back to the Fall River Public Library, Booker said.

■■■

Nine o’clock and Booker had balanced the cash. Late fees, copying fees, donations and the ongoing used book sale did not amount to a lot of money but it all added up. He’d made several calls concerning overdue books, sketched out a poster for an Adult Literacy event and confirmed his attendance at the Lions Club Business Breakfast where he planned to make yet another fundraising pitch. And maybe even solicit the donation of a fireplace insert from the Stove Store. The owner had hinted that, despite the poor economy, he might be able to swing last year’s floor model. Failing that, Booker would ask his friend Sam to find him one. Sam could find anything.

Booker stretched. Ten minutes before, the public computers had automatically shut off while a pre-recorded announcement informed stragglers that the library was closing. Booker turned off the outside lights and took his ritual walk through the building, threading his way through the shelves.

At closing time, it was policy that a staff member walk the stacks. There were several reasons, primarily security. It was also frowned upon to lock someone in who’d innocently dozed off in a comfy reading chair. Occasionally, they’d find a teen with mischief in mind hiding in a bathroom. Mainly, the collection itself needed to be physically protected. Windows had to be closed and locked because temperature and humidity wreaked havoc on books.

There were other things to look out for at closing time; broken headphones at the public computer stations and personal articles left behind, mostly flash drives and reading glasses. Booker started his inspection tour in the children’s wing, his least favorite section of the library.

In the early 1970s, a few renovations had been done to the interior of the building. Some were good, but he wasn’t fond of the decor in the children’s wing that created a startling visual experience. Huge boldly colored animals were painted on all four walls and were engaged in incongruous activities: a blue lion wearing roller skates repairing an army Jeep with a wrench made of snakes; a Dali-esque half-melted banana being shouldered by six giant weasels smoking filtered cigarettes; two grizzly bears in polka dot bathing trunks placing bets at a roulette table while a squadron of jet-black Canada geese with menacing red eyes flew in formation overhead. To Booker, it was disturbing and horrible and slightly nauseating.

The kids loved it.

Booker turned off the overheads from the doorway, grateful that the shelves were low enough so he could see the whole room without having to spend any more time in it than necessary.

He moved to the Reading Room. The antithesis of the children’s wing, it was long and narrow, with two brick archways and high wooden bookshelves. Books were displayed on tables and in glass cases. The contentious fireplace was the focus of the left wall and facing it, on the outside wall, tall leaded glass windows brought afternoon light into the room where dust motes would swirl above the strategically placed wingback chairs. It was a good room, a place of calm and contemplation. Some patrons came to read, others to talk. A long-forgotten novelist was said to have written a book in the room long ago, so a framed photograph of him was propped on the fireplace mantel.

On the wooden facing, just below the mantel shelf, was an inscription. Though it was barely legible through the layers of wood finish and ancient soot, Booker knew it by heart as it was one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings. ‘The key to the riches of an examined life are a burning imagination and a fiery heart.’

However, the fireplace itself was bricked up. Rumor had it that a chimney fire in the 1930s had convinced the fire chief to declare it condemned, though Booker had yet to find any written evidence. His research into certain elements of the library, particularly his attempts at finding the original architectural plans, kept reaching a dead end.

Suddenly, Booker felt like he was being watched. He spun around. Behind him were just the rain spattered windows, through which he could vaguely make out shadows of the naked trees outside, their branches twitching like restless black fingers.

Hello?

A furtive rustle from the circulation area.

Is someone there?

Moving to the front desk from where he could see the full length of the building, he called out again, The library’s closed.

A thump from the second floor got him moving up the stairs. On the landing was a small information desk. He looked behind it. Nothing. To his right was the Great Room where a polished refectory table gleamed under a row of green banker’s lamps and the high ceiling disappeared into the gloom.

Nothing moved.

To his left were a dozen rows of high book stacks stretching to the back wall, the shelves full to overflowing, making the narrow aisles feel cramped. The fact of life in any library was that books accumulated despite best efforts to weed out the old, damaged or superseded.

He couldn’t see down all the rows from any single position, so that meant having to walk the aisles one by one, during which time he’d be cut off from the rest of the library.

I’m locking up. His voice was deadened by the canyons of books. Reluctantly, he waded into the stacks. Being among the books was usually comforting, like being cocooned. Now he felt anxious. Not good, Booker. Not good. Squaring his shoulders, he walked the full length of the first aisle. Fiction, alphabetical by author’s last name. End of the row, he turned right. Looked up the aisle. Nothing. He skipped to the next aisle. Like looking for someone in a supermarket. Then he saw it.

A book on the floor.

It was a big book, lying flat, cover closed, spine facing him. Even from where he stood, he could make out the green sticker distinguishing it as being from the Local History Collection. Booker approached as if it were booby-trapped. He leaned down to examine it further. It was an old book, leather bound. ‘Fall River 1818 to 1918. An Illustrated History.’

What was it doing there? The collection was housed in a dedicated room – a locked room – located on the main floor.

Booker frowned.

The Local History Collection was accessible by appointment only and used primarily for research purposes. Visitors signed materials in and out and there were only two keys – the original, which was kept in a locked drawer in the librarian’s desk, and the duplicate that was on Booker’s key ring. He patted his pocket to confirm it was there. Did he forget to lock the room? Had someone been trying to steal the book, hoping to slip out as he was closing up?

He picked up the book, and went to look at the sign-in sheet. See if somebody had used the room while he was at the board meeting.

Downstairs, the main door slammed shut.

Booker darted down to the ground floor fast enough that the echo was still resonating when he pulled the door open. He stepped out into the night, his breath clouding around his head.

No one. Just the falling rain. He went back inside, locked the door behind him and went straight to the Local History Room, fishing out his keys.

The door was open.

At the front desk, Booker grabbed the sign-in book. He flipped a few pages. The entries indicated the room had been used only once that month.

It was a dusty, disorganized space, and had been since long before Booker’s tenure. Recently, an anonymous letter had been published in the local paper accusing Booker and his staff of neglecting the importance of Fall River’s historical materials. He responded, promising something would be done as soon as it was financially feasible.

The door was thick wood with a frosted glass window. It was open a few inches. The truth was, it could have been open all week. A staff member might have brought the book upstairs to show a patron, against policy, and left the door ajar intending to return later. But how did the book end up on the floor?

Booker eased the door open and switched on the overheads. There was no one in the room.

It was a sorry sight. Floor to ceiling shelves sagging under the weight of dusty volumes, disorganized boxes of microfiche, piles of photo albums, and half a dozen vertical file cabinets filled with everything from military medals to newspaper clippings. And boxes, boxes, boxes.

Over the years there had been several poorly funded state-wide initiatives to accumulate and house local history collections, but the money ran out, people lost interest, and the materials were simply dumped into the room. They piled up and were pushed back into the dust filled corners. Like history itself. Booker needed the job done properly and that meant finding money to hire someone competent. He sighed. Soon. He shut the lights and pulled the door tight, double checking that it was locked.

■■■

Booker stepped out into the night. Shoulders hunched, he trudged up Main Street facing into the wet, gusty wind. Two short blocks brought him to the only lit store front. A blue and gold stencilled sign arched its way across the glass – Sapphire Café.

A little bell rang above the door when he pushed it open and a cloud of steamy air enveloped him then billowed past, climbing the brick wall and disappearing into the dark. Inside, the café smelled of coffee and fried onions. It was narrow and warmly lit. Booths on the right and an open kitchen on the left. The floor was cream linoleum tile with a gray, salt-stained runner down the center, leftover from the slushy winter months. At the long counter were red padded chrome stools.

Despite the weather and the hour, there were customers. An older man with a yellow stained beard sat at the counter, bent over a crossword, chewing the stub of a pencil. Two men were in a booth, wearing hunting jackets and John Deere caps, working their way through deluxe hamburger platters. At the very back was a door marked Office. It was closed.

Booker slid into his usual booth at the front window. It was a good spot, an electric baseboard at his feet, and a view of the small TV above the door tuned to the Weather Network.

He pulled a napkin from the dispenser and was clearing a small circle in the foggy window when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Hello, Phailin, he said.

How’s Booker? A small, elegant Asian woman slid into the booth across from him. She had shoulder length blue-black hair, coffee-colored skin and almond shaped eyes – one blue, one green. Late tonight, she said, frowning.

Booker wanted to keep his adventures at the library to himself. Phailin would worry. Board meeting today. He nodded towards the office. Sam away?

Back in the morning, Phailin studied him. You okay?

Fine. Why?

She looked at him some more. She was very still, and in that stillness, combined with her startling mismatched eyes, was gravitas. You look pale. What have you eaten today?

Fruit.

Booker, look me in the eye. What’s up?

Booker sighed. Someone’s goofing around at the library. Noises, doors slamming, it’s unsettling.

Phailin’s hand found his on the tabletop.

Probably just a ghost, he said, regretting it immediately.

Phailin claimed to believe in ghosts and spirits. She gave the back of his hand a little slap. Don’t joke. You do have a spirit in there. I’ve always said so, ask Samuel. First time I went in there, ‘Samuel, this place is haunted’ I said.

Booker raised one hand. It’s probably teenagers. Again. I’ll have Sam check the footage on those little cameras he put in last summer. If they still work. He in New York?

Phailin nodded and said, I’ll get your food.

On her way to the kitchen, she stopped to ask the hunters if they needed anything. They waved her off politely, intent on their meals. Phailin glided into the open kitchen and reached into an oven. Pulling out a big brown paper bag, she folded the top, forming a sturdy handle, and stapled it shut. Booker met her at the counter, cash in hand. Phailin took his money.

Alex was in a while ago, she told him as she slotted his bills into the cash drawer. He was asking after you.

He does that a lot lately. Why do you think that is? It’s like he’s keeping tabs on me.

I’m not sure Booker. But like all of us, Alex cares about you. People think he’s a doddering old fool. He’s not. She tapped her temple with an index finger. Doesn’t miss a trick.

Thanks for keeping my dinner warm. Booker left, the café’s damp warmth clinging to his coat as he stepped into the night air. Vaporous tendrils rose and swirled around him like unsettled spirits.

Phailin watched him leave, his ghosts following him.

Protecting the paper bag from the rain, Booker hustled up Main Street, crossed at the post office and ducked into the doorway of a three-storey brick warehouse. It was dark and appeared abandoned. In the vestibule, he found the light switch. Climbing noisily up the wooden stairs, he wasn’t concerned; he was the sole occupant. The top floor was his apartment. The rest of the building was empty and largely unfinished. He let himself in and, by the light of the street lamps spilling through the tall windows, navigated his way to the kitchen. When he opened the takeout bag, he was greeted with love.

Love was how he described Phailin’s meals. She had an uncanny ability to express emotions through food. Combinations of spices, textures and consistencies all combined to evoke what she wished to share. Booker inhaled the complex aroma, Phailin’s care and friendship making his solitary meals a little more bearable.

Unseen, down the street through the jittering naked tree branches, a light went on in the library.

Chapter 2

Alcima Willoughby drove like a bat out of hell.

She buried the RV’s gas pedal and flew from the service road onto the highway, engine roaring. Alcima was sweating despite the air-conditioning so she opened the big driver’s side window. Her hair whipped across her face and stuck to one side of her nose. Not wanting to relax her grip on the wheel she gave her head a quick shake.

Checking the side mirror, she muscled the huge customized bus into the right lane and let up a fraction on the gas. She didn’t want a ticket, even though a ticket would be the least of her worries. I’m racing away from a Walmart parking lot at dawn, away from a half-abandoned tourist town in the middle of nowhere in a stolen RV with stolen plates and stolen fuel.

Maybe they’ll put out an all points bulletin for us huh, Ravi? she called over her shoulder. There was no response. The RV was empty. A week on the run and Alcima had taken to talking to the RV for company. She’d named it Ravi, after the famous Indian musician. She liked the exotic name because the RV was exotic.

It was a Prevost bus. Tall and long with eighty-four inches of inside headroom and forty-five feet in length. Five hundred horsepower Volvo diesel engine. Fully customized inside and out with cutting edge technology. Mahogany and marble in the kitchen, leather in the living room and an extra-large shower in the spectacular bathroom. The main advantage of the vehicle, besides comfort and power, was the independence it provided: no hotels, restaurants or public restrooms. Ravi was a self-contained rolling luxury resort.

With no other traffic in sight, Alcima pushed down on the gas, sacrificing fuel economy. She needed to get farther down the road to where she and Ravi would eventually blend in with other motorhomes lumbering along the highways of America.

Sunlight slipped out from behind the heavy cloud bank on the horizon. Ravi’s windshield was filthy from accumulated road dirt and neglect, so Alcima hit the washer button and was rewarded with a weak squirt of blue that smeared the glass and made visibility worse. A ping from Ravi’s overhead display told her it was time to refill the washer fluid.

She slowed to sixty. Between the dirty windshield and the sun in her eyes, she could barely make out the road ahead. She had water, having topped up Ravi’s water tanks the day before at a roadside stop that catered to RVs. The gauge showed seventy-five gallons remaining. She would have to drain some of it from the main holding tank into a bucket, and then fill the wiper washer container manually. That meant pulling over. She scrunched forward in the driver’s seat, found a small patch of clear windshield, and drove on.

Ravi was a glutton for fluids – fuel, oil, water and washer fluid. Except for the water, those fluids, especially the diesel, were expensive and Alcima was stone broke.

Stealing had cost her dignity and sense of morality, but it was a price she was willing to pay. A price she had to pay. For her freedom, her safety.

The truth was, stealing fuel for Ravi had actually been exhilarating, there was no denying it. She’d calculated her chances of success would be best if she found a parking lot somewhere she and Ravi wouldn’t stand out. Where else but Walmart? We’re RV friendly! And with plenty of spare parts in the tool kit, Alcima had enough hose to make a siphon.

Being on the run and not wanting to be recognized, Alcima had avoided overnight stops in Walmart lots, preferring the sprawling freeway truck stops where even a motorhome Ravi’s size was relatively inconspicuous. But with no money and Ravi running on fumes, she had to risk it. Her odds were improved by arriving late and leaving early, so she and Ravi had pulled off the highway at midnight and slipped into the Walmart on the outskirts of a small rural town on the south shore of Lake Ontario. River Falls?

Pickings at Walmart had been pretty good. Truckers often parked overnight in the lot, sometimes even grabbing a cab into town for a night of carousing. Alcima had lucked out. Four semi trucks, two big diesel pickups and not a locking gas cap in sight. When it started to rain, she thanked her lucky stars. It meant there was less chance of anyone being out to catch her in the act.

Because Ravi averaged seven miles per gallon and Alcima wanted to get at least a hundred miles away, she needed fifteen gallons to be safe. It had been a time-consuming process and sucking on the hose to get the flow going was the worst, but Alcima was a realist; it was a necessary evil. Luckily, she had an old Binaca breath spray and periodically took quick cleansing shots after spitting out the fuel that would inevitably gush up at the beginning of each siphoning session. Once it was flowing, it was just a matter of waiting, watching and listening.

A car rolled into the lot, headlights sweeping past her. It pulled up at the front doors and stopped, idling. Alcima held her breath. The gas can, filled to the brim, began to overflow. With one eye on the idling car, she tried as nonchalantly as possible to yank the hose from the truck’s tank and screw on the cap. Someone came out of the store, jumped in the waiting car and they drove off, not paying her any attention. After that, she worked in the downpour, undisturbed. Alcima figured Walmart’s after-hours security likely consisted of a looped video feed from a single camera above the main entrance, only reviewed in the event something was actually reported, so she’d stayed the course and filled the five-gallon gas can four times. Twenty gallons. Time to go. Skulking out of the parking lot, soaked to the bone, she considered it a win.

She found the on-ramp and careened onto the highway, whooping and fist-pumping and struggling out of her sodden clothes while she drove. The rain