The Hero of Willow Creek

By Jeff Turner

ﾠThe Hero of Willow Creek

Synopsis

An all night convenience store in the middle of nowhere. Two women hurt and held captive by a strung out, twisted criminal. A stranger minding his own business, showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ray Porter is an ordinary guy whose sheltered and peaceful world is shattered one night when he stumbles upon an armed robbery in progress. Resisting the temptation to not get involved, he instead uses gritty determination and fierce resolve to overtake the violent psychopath and rescue the two captives.

Porter becomes an overnight hero of legendary proportion in the sleepy, rural town of Willow Creek and is bestowed astonishing tribute and bounty. But the intensely private Porter soon realizes that such revered status isn t for him, and a hasty retreat to simpler times becomes an eventful journey sculpted by those in his life: a protective sister, a bright but clinging teenager, a kindhearted sheriff, and a strange and puzzling victim from that fateful night.

This is a novel about a true dyed in the wool hero, an unknown who puts his life in jeopardy for total strangers, and who does so without the need for recognition or glory. It is a story about how private worlds can suddenly collide with the unyielding powers of fate and circumstance, resulting in lives being altered for better or worse, or even swept away. ﾠﾠ

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682132609

Book preview

Chapter One

Ray Porter always considered himself a lucky guy and truly believed nothing bad could ever happen to him. Even as a kid growing up he felt as though he was somehow kept out of harm’s way, immune to the risks facing those around him, like accidents, illnesses, or even death. He never really understood, nor took into account, the notions of being jinxed or snake bitten. He enjoyed telling others that he was born under a lucky star, that his life was charmed rather than cursed. He boasted that he used up none of his nine lives, and for that matter, didn’t need them.

That’s why when he left Maloney’s around 11:00 p.m. on a Friday night, a popular watering hole next to his job, he had no hesitancy in setting his sights on the two-hour drive home. While he lived in a weekly rental in town during the workweek, he turned tail on Fridays and headed for Bartlett’s Cove to be with his family.

It didn’t matter much that he’d just tossed back four boilermakers on an empty stomach. What did matter was just getting home, climbing into his bed, and not having to get up for work tomorrow. He knew with certainty that getting there would happen, as if he possessed some kind of rare talent that had elevated him to a higher level of being, complete with a parachute should he fizzle or stall.

As he left the bar and headed for his truck, an old and battered ’91 Chevy Silverado, he looked around the joint then up at the night sky—much like a dog sniffing the air after being let out of the house—and unlocked the door. Before getting in the truck, he reached down and loosened the laces of his construction boots, something he always did to relieve the pressure on his feet before driving home to Bartlett’s Cove.

While he wasn’t anywhere near wasted or totaled, expressions Porter tossed around for the helplessly blitzed or plastered, he felt a buzz as he got behind the wheel, buckled himself in, and slid the key into the ignition. The truck started on the first try, and Porter eased it out of the bar’s parking lot, coasted through several city streets at the designated speed limit, and picked up speed as he headed for the highway’s entrance ramp.

Drinking and driving rarely bothered him. He’d driven under the influence many times before and never came close to running into any kind of trouble. In fact, much to the surprise of his pals, he’d never been issued a speeding ticket and never got pulled over by the police for reckless driving. The same held true for never having received a seatbelt violation. He was also never arrested for disorderly conduct. Ever since he’d been driving, he never ran into a sobriety checkpoint, and now twenty-eight years old, lady luck still rode shotgun in his rig.

As soon as he got pointed in the right direction, a light rain began to fall, and after a few miles, it came down heavier. He began to hear thunder rumbling around him, and a few lightning bolts flashed across the black sky. While Porter had been traveling along at a pretty good clip, he slowed down to avoid skidding on the slick surface. It was early April, but evening temperatures were still known to descend into the teens.

After forty minutes or so, the storm began to pass, and Porter could see the moon and some stars peeking out from behind streaking clouds. Traffic was light, which was not unusual on the highway late at night. In fact, the only thing he could see was the red taillights of a single trailer truck about a mile away. The woods and few buildings that he passed were dark and empty, and the occasional unlit exit roads branched away and disappeared somewhere into the night.

Given the wide-open spaces and being reasonably sure that the highway had dried, Porter switched over to the passing lane, which he preferred should other vehicles come aboard from entry ramps. He gave the truck some extra juice to make up for lost time, and its big engine sputtered at first but then kicked in. While he wasn’t exactly putting the pedal to the metal, he also wasn’t traveling at a snail’s pace. If he spotted traffic, he’d ratchet it down a notch or two.

The route was pretty much a straight shoot, and after the brief storm, the visibility was good. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Porter’s alertness. The combination of hard work and too much alcohol in the system was taking its toll, and while Porter thought he was wide awake during the early leg of his journey, he was now having trouble keeping his eyes open. He rubbed them more than once, and the yawns began tumbling out of his mouth.

He cursed himself for drinking too much and not partaking in the free buffet offered at Maloney’s on Friday nights. He hadn’t been hungry when he first arrived with a few of his work buddies and had been perfectly content just bending his elbow at the bar. But now, he realized that food in his stomach would’ve helped temper the alcohol in his bloodstream and not allowed him to feel so tired. His eyelids were drooping, and his muscles cried out for sleep.

In an effort to stay awake, Porter switched on the radio and tried listening to the news, but the newscaster’s syrupy and warm voice was more of a lullaby than the splash of cold water he needed. He tried jacking up the volume on his sound system and listening to some rock music—he even tried singing along—but the novelty of that lasted for only two miles, maybe three.

He opened both windows to let in the cold night air and even put the air-conditioner on full blast. At first these seemed like good ideas, but after a few minutes, the rush of cold air dried his eyes and numbed his feet. He attempted to call a few of his friends on his cell phone with the hope that a conversation might pry him awake, but his calls went unanswered, and all he had to show for his efforts was a dead cell. With no charger around, he tossed the cell up on the dashboard.

Porter approached a slow winding curve in the highway, and when he turned the wheel, the cell phone began sliding along the dashboard toward the passenger side. He reached to grab it, keeping one hand on the wheel to stay in his lane, but his efforts failed. The phone reached the end of the dashboard and then bounced off, landing under the passenger seat. He cursed out loud.

Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Porter tried reaching under the seat to retrieve the cell, but by the time he looked up, it was too late. His truck had somehow swerved when his eyes left the road, and it now headed for the other lane and the highway’s shoulder, brake rotors squealing and tires screeching. Although Porter had driven past the curve and was now on a straightaway, the truck had engaged in a dangerous sideways slide, the kind often resulting in a rollover.

Porter’s night of guzzling the sauce wouldn’t be kind. He foolishly slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel savagely to the left, in the process overcorrecting the slide. The left hand side of the truck began lifting off the road, both tires elevating from the surface. Porter realized his mistake and began correcting the lateral force by gradually reducing brake pressure and straightening the wheel. Much to his relief, he succeeded in slowing down the truck’s sidelong route. However, he’d run out of pavement to restore total stability, and with no guardrail in place, the truck’s right side tires dug into soft ground.

The increased sideways force and sudden resistance of soft ground lifted the left half of the truck up into the air. Porter prepared for the worst and grabbed the steering wheel and held on as tightly as he could. He leaned as much as he could to the left and could only hope that his seatbelt would hold. The truck chassis groaned as the entire left side of the vehicle continued to lift. Porter’s tools and other belongings began to slide and bang against the interior’s right side.

Just as the truck was about to turn completely on its side and flip, its momentum stopped, and as Porter later recalled, everything seemed to play out in slow motion. The big Silverado just hung in the air for an instant, rocked back and forth a bit, and then slammed back down to the pavement with a loud, resounding crash.

Porter took a deep breath and just sat there trying to settle his nerves and gather his wits. His heart was thumping wildly. He closed his eyes and slowly breathed in and out, trying to get a grip. His skin was tingling, and his ears were ringing from the loud noises. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow.

After a few long moments, he snapped himself out of his trance. He opened his eyes and swallowed hard. He shook his head to clear it and rubbed the back and sides of his neck. He removed a bandana from his back pocket and wiped his forehead.

He was lucky the truck hadn’t rolled over. The gods had looked down at him and smiled.

He put the truck in park and killed the engine, then turned the ignition key to auxiliary power and put on the flashers. He turned his headlights off to conserve the battery, unbuckled his seatbelt, and reached behind his seat to retrieve a heavy-duty LED hand lamp. He switched it on and a bright stream of light filled the cab. He opened the glove box, removed a tire pressure gauge, and stuck it in the pocket of his flannel shirt.

Porter pushed the door open and stepped out into the night. It was dark and chilly, and the highway was silent. The stench of burned rubber hung in the air, and the truck’s engine pinged. The truck had come to rest along a heavily treed part of the highway with no buildings in sight. Despite traveling on this road for months, he couldn’t place where he was. The highway looked different at night.

As he walked around the back of the truck to look at the right hand side, he stopped when he thought he heard rustling in the woods. He directed a beam of light toward its general location, but the noise stopped almost at once. Whatever it was had disappeared.

Porter did not want to stay any longer than necessary. It was fortunate that no other motorists had witnessed what happened, and he couldn’t run the risk of getting caught flat-footed by any other vehicles bearing down on him. His fear was having someone stopping to help, or even worse, calling a dispatcher to report a disabled vehicle. Here he was, having left ugly skid marks and fishtails across the highway, sitting half on and half off the road, and reeking of alcohol. Should a police officer come along and stop, Porter knew he would end up cooling his heels in a jail cell.

He quickened his step around the old truck. He directed the LED beam back and forth along the lower length of the truck. None of the side panels appeared to be dented, but he’d lost a strip of splashguard running the length of the truck, along with a mud flap on the rear tire well. Chrome body trim along the door had also popped off. He found the pieces on the ground nearby and tossed everything in the bed. Looking under the truck, the muffler appeared to have lost a clamp and hung lower than usual.

The tires seemed to be on the soft side, and the tire pressure gauge proved him right. There were also tire burns on the right tire walls from the sideways slide. He walked around to the left hand side of the truck and found those tires to be low as well. He couldn’t afford to lose any more tire pressure just sitting there on the side of the road.

He was running out of time and didn’t dare pop open the hood to inspect the engine. He didn’t smell any oil leaking onto the exhaust system, but he did detect the sweet smell of syrup that likely meant the truck was leaking engine coolant. When he got back to his door, he switched off the hand lamp and stuck it back in the storage compartment.

Before he hoisted himself into the cab, he walked behind the truck, found a fairly large tree, and relieved himself. He shook himself off, zipped up, and got back into the truck.

Porter had no doubt the truck would start on the first attempt, and the Silverado proved him right and roared to life. Then died. He tried starting it several more times and got nothing. The engine would start, cough, then fizzle out. He smelled gasoline and was afraid of flooding the engine, so he waited a few minutes and tried again. This time luck was on his side, and the engine kicked in and stayed running, although its idling speed was rough.

Glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure no vehicles were approaching, he put the truck into gear and eased forward. Mindful of the possibility of mud from the earlier rainfall, Porter drove out slowly until all four wheels were on the asphalt pavement.

As he gained speed, Porter noticed that the truck had noticeably more rattles and creaks and rode hard. The truck also pulled to the right and required correction every so often. He knew that he needed to nurse the truck home and over the weekend get a complete inspection, including hoses, belts, and gaskets. He could visualize the bill growing in financially painful proportion.

Porter was surprised at how wide-awake he’d become after his mishap. The near-tragic highway disaster had been a powerful elixir, a wake-up call that he wouldn’t soon forget. He’d snapped out of his stupor and no longer felt like he was shuttling back and forth in an alcoholic haze. He shuddered to think of his behavior on the road tonight, from drinking too much and speeding, to reckless driving and endangerment to others. Plus, he damaged the only vehicle he owned and allowed himself to end up stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Having been given a good scare and facing at least another hour behind the wheel, Porter decided that he needed to find a diner or store where he could grab some coffee and food to help soak up the booze and keep him awake, something he should’ve done earlier. He also needed to find out where the nearest truck repair shops were in case he couldn’t make it home. Given the condition of his truck, he had to be prepared for a mechanical breakdown.

While he’d never stopped in this neck of the woods, he planned on taking the first exit that looked promising. After passing two exits leading to access frontage, acreage for sale, and not much else, Porter chose an exit designated as Willow Creek. The curved exit was a fairly long and narrow road partly under construction. At the end of it, Porter tried to figure out which way to go. He decided to turn left because it appeared more populated, and distant lighting in that direction seemed to offer better prospects for finding something open. However, he drove a few miles without any luck, and any illumination he spotted at the stop sign turned out to be security floodlights from closed businesses.

He was about to turn around and head the other way when he saw the red taillights of a car about a half-mile ahead. The car had its right blinker on and appeared to be pulling into a parking lot. Porter decided to follow it. Even if he came up empty-handed, he figured he could turn around there and backtrack to the main highway. As he slowed down and eyeballed the parking lot, a small reward for his patience stood shining in the moonlight: an all-night convenience store.

A rusted and slightly bent metal sign on the roof identified the place as Store 24. With his options all but gone, Porter realized that it was Store 24 or nothing. He had no way of knowing that when he pulled in, his life—and the lives of others—would hang in the balance. Instead of the gods watching over his shoulder, Porter would be on his own this time, unshielded and imperiled.

Chapter Two

The store was set back from the road and squeezed between some kind of hardware or rental center, a print shop, and a run-down laundromat. While these stores were closed and dark, Store 24 was open as advertised and looked clean and respectable. It wasn’t a diner, but likely offered coffee and munchies, maybe even some packaged sandwiches. At this hour and in unfamiliar surroundings, Porter couldn’t afford to be choosy. His wristwatch told him it was just after midnight.

A dark sedan was the only other vehicle in front of the store, probably the one Porter spotted a few moments ago. He pulled in next to it, the loose gravel crunching under the truck’s wide tires. After he turned off the ignition, he retrieved his cell phone from underneath the passenger seat and put it in the glove box. He also collected his tool belt and lunch pail from the passenger floor, both having fallen off the seat. Finally, Porter snagged his faded Red Sox cap from behind the front seat and put it on his head, pulling the brim down low, just above the eyes.

Porter was twenty-eight years old and stood a little over six feet. He had a rugged upper body, broad chest, and shoulders complemented by strong arms and legs. In his younger days, he excelled in both basketball and baseball, and he stayed fit by running and working out at a local health club several times a week. Women regarded him as handsome with his deep-set blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and character lines that accentuated a strong face. He had a strong jawline and a smooth complexion with the exception of some small starburst scars scattered under his lower left jaw and part of his neck. He had a full head of hair that he wore on the short side and a dimpled, playful smile. He was single and while he dated on a regular basis, showed little inclination to involve himself in a serious relationship.

Porter began heading for the main entrance of the convenience store, hiking up the collar of his flannel shirt as he went. He could see his breath in the cold night air, and he blew into cupped hands for some warmth. He looked over toward the dark sedan and saw in its shadowy interior a woman sitting in the driver’s seat talking on a cell phone. The woman looked up when she saw Porter, and their eyes briefly linked.

Porter took several more steps toward the store and then stopped, as if he’d just remembered something. He went back to his truck and looked inside the bed for his baseball glove, which he’d recently used after work when he and a few other guys were playing catch. But the glove wasn’t there, and for all he knew, it could’ve been thrown from the truck when it almost flipped. If so, it probably rested somewhere in the undergrowth by the side of the road. It was a good glove and had his name printed on it.

He wasn’t about to go back and look for the glove now, but made a mental note to search for it the next time he was on the highway. Location-wise, all he had to do was follow the long skid marks, which wouldn’t be hard to find.

When he turned around to head back to the store, the woman in the dark sedan got out, tossed her cell on the front seat, then closed and locked her door. She walked parallel to Porter as they approached the store. She was probably in her late twenties, had short blond hair, and was obviously in a rush to make a purchase. She carried a wallet in one hand and nothing in the other. He pegged her as a professional type based on the business suit and fancy silk scarf she wore, the flat pumps, and the way she carried herself.

When the two reached the door, Porter opened it for her and stepped aside. She didn’t look up but murmured a sideways thanks and entered. Porter nodded politely while touching the brim of his cap.

He followed her in. The store lights were bright, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Porter watched as the blond made her way down the center aisle, and he realized they were the only two customers in the store. A petite college-age female tended the cash register and sat atop a high-backed stool, a sweater draped across the back of it. She had long dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and held by a red scrunchie. She had a heart-shaped face, a dusting of freckles, and wore a pair of oversized tortoise shell glasses. She was reading what appeared to be a textbook and had a pair of earbuds in place.

She looked up and smiled when the blond and Porter entered, immediately removing the earbuds and placing them on the counter next to an iPhone. Porter placed her age at around twenty. He decided to ask her about garage repair shops after he got his coffee.

The store was wider and deeper than Porter first thought and had a pleasing, clean appearance about it. It was well maintained and stocked, and his eyes scanned the aisles trying to locate where the coffee and snacks were kept. He ended up asking the cashier, who directed him to the back of the store. Once there, he found a coffeemaker and a microwave sitting on a wide counter top along with displays of packaged doughnuts, pastries, cookies, slices of flavored pound cake, and the usual assortment of condiments. There were even some bananas and apples in a wooden basket.

The store lights up front flickered and dimmed as Porter poured himself a cup of coffee, but he paid little attention. He was focused on the coffee, which appeared and smelled like it had been freshly brewed. He added some cream and a yellow packet of sugar substitute and capped it with a plastic lid. He slid the coffee to one side, selected two packaged pastries and an apple, and when he grabbed for some napkins, a few fell to the floor.

When he bent down to retrieve the napkins, he noticed that he’d forgotten to lace up his construction boots before he came into the store. He didn’t want to trip. Porter went down on one knee to lace one up, then did the same for the other.

When he rose and went back to his business, he heard some commotion at the front of the store. He looked that way and for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, felt something wasn’t quite as it should be.

While his view was partially obstructed by items on the shelves, he could see the back of the blond up by the register. She stood next to a stranger who hadn’t been in the store when Porter entered. The cashier stood behind the counter, ready to wait on the blond. The guy was saying something to the blond in a hunched-over way, words that Porter couldn’t hear from where he stood. At one point, he put his arm around her left shoulder and spoke into her ear. She, in turn, appeared to be nodding. It looked like they were holding hands.

Given this kind of intimacy, Porter thought the blond must’ve been the stranger’s wife or girlfriend. Porter couldn’t remember if someone else was in her car when he parked. It really didn’t matter, though, and Porter scolded himself for not minding his own business.

He turned back to the counter to collect his items, but then paused for a moment. Something was off at the front of the store, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was when he turned around for a second time that his nerves snapped to attention and his mind put the pieces together. His radar switched to full alert.

He was watching a robbery in progress.

The stranger had taken the blond captive and ordered the cashier to hand over the money. The guy had apparently pretended to be the woman’s partner, but obviously wasn’t. He growled orders at the two and roughly used his left arm to put the blond in a headlock, the force of which momentarily lifted her off her feet. She screamed and struggled, and the stranger responded by viciously punching her several times in the stomach. The blond cried out, and the cashier steepled her hands in front of her face, wearing a look of total panic.

Apparently, the stranger entered the store while Porter was kneeling and lacing his boots. Now, he quickly dropped back down to remain undetected. His body tensed as adrenaline pumped into his system. Any prolonged effects from the near highway rollover disappeared, as did any alcoholic jitters or cobwebs. He’d walked directly into harm’s way, a dangerous, high-risk situation. The lives of two women were in jeopardy.

Porter knew he was the only person in the store who could provide assistance. He also knew that he could play it safe and stay hidden behind the shelves. The choice was clearly his. It only took a moment for Porter to make up his mind. There was no way he was going to jump under the bed and leave these women to the mercy of the assailant.

His mind went to work quickly mapping out a plan. Even though he wasn’t sure about the exact layout of the store, he knew enough. The cashier’s station was at the front of the store to his far left. An open space existed in front of the register and the door. From where he was crouching, there were four aisles to his left that had to be crossed. He was reasonably sure that after the last aisle there would be a wider space leading up to the cashier.

Porter had no phone and no weapon and knew that he had to move quickly and silently. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain no one was behind him. He stayed low and crossed all four aisles without being detected. He still had the element of surprise. He crouched on his haunches and balanced himself with his fingertips, listening closely, his breath measured and steady.

Without warning both females screamed, followed by the stranger demanding that they stop. Something fell to the floor and shattered, which led to more shouting. Whatever had just happened, both females were now hysterical.

Porter knew that he had to act and make his presence known. He stepped out and away from the cover of the aisle.

Stop, that’s enough, Porter shouted, making his voice rise above the screams.

The stranger was partially turned from Porter but quickly spun around, the blond in tow. He was obviously not expecting anyone else to be in the store. A slow smile appeared on his face.

What did you say? he smirked.

Porter licked his lips. You heard me. Let her go. As he spoke, Porter walked toward him, then stopped. He was about fifteen feet away.

Porter’s mind quickly took stock of the situation, the details disturbing. The stranger stood in front of the cash register and was holding a bloodstained knife in his right hand while applying a headlock to the blond with his left. The cash register draw was open, and the tray pulled up.

When the stranger saw Porter walking toward him, he jerked the blond closer to his left side and despite her efforts to free herself, tightened the headlock.

The cashier was sobbing and staring at a knife slash along the underside of her left forearm. She looked horrified as the blood pulsated from the wound and dripped to the floor. From Porter’s angle, it looked deep, possibly involving arterial bleeding. She no longer wore her eyeglasses, and her ponytail had pulled away from the scrunchie, her long hair now partially covering her face. Her iPhone lay broken apart on the floor in front of the counter. Her textbook was bloodstained and lay open on the tile floor next to her eyeglasses.

The blond struggled to lift her head. Her face was red and contorted, her business suit torn at the shoulders. One shoe was missing. Her whole body seemed to be trembling. She looked at Porter with pleading eyes that said, Help me.

The stranger was Caucasian and from a distance seemed average height and weight. He had a stubbly pencil-thin moustache, and his face was pockmarked. His eyes were dark and had a helter-skelter appearance, nervously darting back and forth. He wore a black hoodie, dark gray sweat pants, and tan Timberland boots.

Apparently, the guy had stuffed the cash from the register in the right side pocket of his sweat pants. Several bills were slipping out, and more lay scattered on the floor. The knife he held in his right hand was actually a straight edge barber’s razor, the kind with a foldaway handle.

Porter’s mind raced as he tried to decide what he needed to do. One thing was certain: he knew he had to keep taking steps toward him to reduce the distance. He didn’t want to leave himself open to dangerous, sweeping body slashes, and the last thing he wanted was for the guy to get behind him.

Porter pointed to the blond with his chin. I said let her go. He took another step forward.

The stranger laughed to himself as if he were enjoying some kind of private joke. When he was done, he mimicked Porter, I said let her go, sarcastically stringing out the words. He looked around the store with his wild eyes, as if he were performing in front of an audience, looking for adoration.

But then the guy’s mood abruptly changed.

Who the fuck do you think you are telling me what to do? You shut the fuck up, he screamed at Porter. His upper lip had a natural curl to it, creating a sneering, menacing appearance.

Porter didn’t respond right away, and for a frozen moment, the two just stared at each other, sizing each other up. Porter’s mind processed what he needed to do. The guy was right-handed, which meant that he had to charge in fast on that side to minimize the guy’s range of arm motion. If he attacked the other side, he would leave himself open to the mercy of the razor, meaning longer and more powerful slashes. He had to avoid that side at all costs.

Porter spoke, Let her go. I won’t ask again. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his voice. As he spoke, he took a few more slow steps forward, then stopped. He was now about eight feet away.

Outside, a customer suddenly came to the door and pulled on the handle. The door wouldn’t open. He tried it again, this time using more force, perhaps thinking it was stuck. He rattled it back and forth a few times, put his hands on his hips, peered into the store, and then walked away. Porter was hoping the guy saw unusual activity in the store and had the sense to call 911.

At that precise moment, the blond struggled from her captor and broke free. Her momentum caused her to reel backward five or six steps, and then she lost her balance and fell, the back of her head absorbing the full impact of her collapse with a thud. The back of her head began spilling blood on to the tile floor. She lay unconscious on her back next to an ice cream cooler, her skirt bunched to mid-thigh.

The stranger looked at Porter and giggled, swiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. Oh, Momma, now there’s a wild one, he said.

Porter edged closer.

The guy continued his rant. Just look at her, on her back . . . she’s already got her skirt pulled up just waitin’ for me. See, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. I’m gonna nail her real good when she wakes up. He grabbed his crotch for effect, moving it up and down.

The stranger turned to look at the cashier. First, I’m gonna get warmed up on this young piece. You, he snarled, get over here so I can start taggin’ that sweet ass of yours.

The cashier didn’t respond or even look his way. Instead, she looked directly at Porter, her lips trembling. She held her left arm out in front of her, shoulders sagging. The blood from her wound continued to drip on the floor, creating a widening puddle. The air had a metallic, coppery odor.

She can’t hear you, Porter said. She’s hurt bad. Look, let me at least try to stop the bleeding. I can make a tourniquet with the sleeves of my shirt. Porter had started unbuttoning his flannel shirt and removed it, holding it out at arm’s length for the guy to see.

The stranger pointed the razor directly at Porter, and then angrily swept it through the air. He furrowed his brows and said, Did I ask for your shirt? I told you to shut up.

The cashier kept looking at him for help and was crying softly.

Keeping his eye on the stranger, Porter said out of the corner of his mouth, Sweetheart, listen to me. I know you’re hurt. If you have a towel or cloth next to you, put it over the wound and put pressure on it with your other hand. You’ve got to keep pressure on it.

The stranger cut Porter off and glared at him. Shut up, he snapped.

Porter ignored him. Again, he glanced over at the cashier, who hadn’t moved. She was terrified, and her eyes pleaded with Porter again.

Porter’s eyes moved back and forth, from the cashier to the stranger. He spoke to the cashier, Okay, forget about the cloth. Use the palm of your other hand and cover the wound. Keep pressure on it and get that arm up. Don’t let the blood scare you. Look away if you have to, look at me.

The cashier nodded vaguely and tried to do what she was told. She kept her eyes on Porter.

I said shut the fuck up, asshole, the stranger screamed. He wiped his mouth again with his sleeve and he looked at Porter with disgust in his eyes. You made a big mistake showing up here, tryin’ to be the big hero. You’re gonna be sorry you ever walked in here ‘cause I’m gonna take this blade and give you a tune up you’ll never forget.

The guy made a big show of tossing the blade from one hand to the other but then stopped, clenching it in his right hand. He turned to face Porter and spat on the tile.

Porter turned a bit sideways to start putting his shirt back on—or to make it look like he was—but in reality he was wrapping it around his left forearm.

Then, in one fluid motion, Porter turned and lunged for the knife.

While initially startled, the stranger quickly recovered and managed to slash through Porter’s shirt-protected left arm, opening a gash across his left triceps. Porter was still able to grab the stranger’s right wrist with both hands while pushing him backward toward a nearby wall. They crashed into a display rack of newspapers, sending it crashing to the floor.

Porter could sense almost immediately that he was the stronger of the two and knew he would be able to disarm the guy without much resistance.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

All along, Porter had assumed the stranger was right-handed. But he was incorrect. The guy was a lefty and had been keeping his left arm at his side. Now he slid his left hand into the hoodie’s front pouch, springing another surprise on Porter: he was carrying a second razor. Using far greater dexterity with his dominant hand, it took only seconds for him to flip it open and viciously slash Porter across his right shoulder blade.

Porter grimaced from the sting of the second razor, but his attention was focused on gaining control of the first one. The stranger used this opportunity to again slash Porter, this time a little lower. He had strength behind the slashes, and the razor cut deep. Porter grunted with pain.

It’s often said that deep wounds cause such extensive damage to the skin, and the nerves under it that they may not bring pain right away. However, Porter immediately felt the pain from both slashes, as well as the one from his left triceps, and knew right away that he was in trouble. Still standing and clamping the stranger’s right wrist, Porter began to feel his knees giving way.

Porter knew he had to gain control of the second razor. He was somehow able to summon his inner reserves to grab the stranger’s left wrist while still holding the right before he slashed again. He managed to get his feet back under him and stood chest to chest with the stranger.

Porter now held the guy’s wrists and had gotten