Chapter 2: A Mysterious Warning

Her name was Auburn Reynolds.  She lived in a small, white house with green shutters on N. 8^th Street, just off Highway 11.  Approaching the age of 12, she was the only child of Ron and Janna Reynolds, who’d moved to Blackwell three months before.  Ron worked at the industrial park; Janna was an insurance agent.  Their daughter bore a remarkable resemblance to both.  She shared her mother’s long, flowing, auburn hair (hence the name); but she had her dad’s face—gray, innocent circles for eyes peering out above a small nose and a short mouth.

Outside of her parents, no one in town knew who she was.  In fact, most Blackwell residents didn’t even know she existed.  This was because Auburn almost never left the house.  In fact, she’d only gone three places ever since she’d moved in.  Most of the time, she sat staring out the front window of 942 N. 8^th Street.  If she wasn’t at the window, she was somewhere else in the house, doing something else.  She was a heavy reader and a master at shuffling cards—better even than George Dailey, who’d had seventy-three years of playing poker with his buddies to perfect his skill.  She also liked listening to old time radio shows, but she would only listen to three series—The Lone Ranger, Challenge of the Yukon, and The Green Hornet.  Whether this was because they had all been created by the same writer (Franz Striker), whether there was something about the characters that appealed to her, or whether there was something about the stories that she liked—perhaps it was even a combination of those reasons—these were the shows she’d listen to.  On them, she was an expert; on others, not so (unless they happened to come on just after her favorite three, in which case she could tell you the times).

Of course, there’s no fun in reading about someone’s usual routine, so our story begins with what had been a very rare occurrence in Blackwell.  The front door to 942 N. 8^th Street swung open; and, for only the third time since moving to Blackwell, Auburn stepped outside.

It was around two o’clock in the afternoon: a hot, June afternoon.  The sun hung high in the sky, beaming 92 degrees of torturous Fahrenheit down on the little town.  This did nothing to bother the birds, who went on chirping as merrily as they always did, while somewhere in the distance, a truck horn blared.  It had all the makings of a normal summer afternoon.

Auburn wasn’t apparently going anywhere; she stepped over the weedy yard towards the mailbox on the street.  Her destination was not the mailbox, though, for she stopped about halfway to the box and stared down 8^th Street, towards Highway 11.  She seemed as if she was trying to remember something.

A squeaky sound caught her attention, and she glanced the other direction.  A boy, somewhere around her own age, was riding down the street on his bike.  It was a blue bike, with shiny silver handlebars and an empty basket atop these.  The boy seemed in no hurry; in fact, he even slowed down and stopped right in front of Auburn’s house.  Leaning to his left to hold his balance, he said:

“Meeting tonight at 6:00.”

He said it very matter-of-factly, with no trace of excitement in his voice and almost a hint of dread.  His eyes remained staring straight ahead, failing to meet Auburn’s as she replied:

“I beg your pardon?”

Now the eyes turned to look at her, with a blank expression as the boy began, “Meeting tonight at 6—say, you’re not in the club.  Are you?”

“Club?  What club?”

Auburn wondered why the boy’s eyes widened in what could only be described as fear.  “Never mind!” he said.  “Just forget about it!”  And with that, he went pedaling off down the street—at a significantly faster rate than he’d arrived.

Curiously, Auburn watched him go until he reached the highway and was lost from sight.  Then, she turned and went back inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her next outing, if you will (for Auburn, any breath of fresh air was an outing) came two days later, when she left the house for only the fourth time since moving to Blackwell.  This time, she didn’t go empty-handed.  She bore a map which she had just printed, leading from her house to the Conoco on Highway 11.  It was only a half-mile away, but Auburn had been out of the house so little, she wanted to be certain of the place’s whereabouts.

The big, red, oval sign with CONOCO running across it in white letters left no doubt as to Auburn’s target.  Its building, rather small, looked at least thirty years old, in part because its exterior had never been renovated.  “Conoco Supercenter” was the name of the convenience store; there was no garage.

A bell tinkled as Auburn slipped inside, but it did nothing to rouse the cashier, a slender girl only about five years older than Auburn.  Her shoulder-length, dark brown hair didn’t get in the way of her slightly freckled face, but Auburn could barely see it because the clerk kept her head down.  She did nothing to acknowledge Auburn’s presence.

Oh, well.  Auburn wasn’t here for the service; she was here for the cold drinks, which were apparently at the back of the store.  Glancing over the rows of beverages, she settled on a Big Blue—a Texas brand.  As she closed the refrigerator door, she saw in the reflection that the store was completely empty, save herself and the cashier.

Maneuvering her way around the island counter, Auburn greeted the clerk and plopped her Big Blue down on the counter.  The cashier picked it up without making eye contact, but as she scanned it, she spoke:

“Don’t forget about tonight.”

“Huh?”

“The meeting.  6:00.”

“What meeting?!”

The girl glanced up in surprise, now looking intently at Auburn.  “Aren’t you in the club?”

“No, I’m not!” retorted Auburn.  “This is the second time this week someone’s told me about a meeting.  What is this club, and what’s the meeting for?”

“Never mind,” said the clerk.  “Forget I mentioned it.”

“Why?” asked Auburn.

“Just forget it!” said the girl.  She didn’t say it rudely, but solemnly, and there was something unsettling about her tone.  She finished scanning Auburn’s drink and glanced at the screen.  “That’ll be—”

Outside, a car door slammed.  Auburn saw the girl’s eyes glance towards the door, then widen in fright.

“What is it?” Auburn asked.

The girl looked back at her.  “Quick!” she suddenly exclaimed.  “Get behind the counter!  Hurry!”

Auburn wasn’t expecting the command, but she knew better than to ask questions.  The clerk pulled open the door to a mostly-empty cabinet underneath and motioned towards it.  “Get in there before he sees you!”

“Who?” Auburn asked.

“Just get in there!” the girl said, her eyes pleading with Auburn to follow orders.

Auburn still wasn’t sure what this was all about, but it was more excitement than she’d had in a while, so she shoved her way under the counter.  Sandwiched among cleaning supplies, a cooler, and a toolkit, she listened to what was going on.

The man must have parked at a pump, for at least twenty seconds passed before the door to the convenience store opened.  Auburn heard the sensor beep, and then she heard his voice.

“Brittany!” he shouted—a confident, friendly yell that boomed around the building.  “I didn’t know you were working today.”

“Hello, Mr. Richards,” Brittany said, in as dreary a tone as she could muster.

“How’s my favorite cashier?” the man said, walking over to the counter.  “I’d like this candied apple, if you don’t mind.”

There was a small crack in the back of the cabinet; through it, Auburn managed to catch a glimpse of the man’s legs.  Thin legs, like a runner’s, clad in gray trousers.  The man also wore brown dress shoes; wherever he was coming from, it wasn’t a manual-labor type job.

From above, Auburn could hear Brittany typing on the cash register.  Whatever she was typing, she made an error, for Auburn heard her jam the backspace key several times before starting over.  She was clearly flustered.

“Can’t wait to see you at the meeting tonight,” the man was saying.  “Oh, by the way, I think I’ve got another service project for you next Tuesday…at 5:00.”

The register went silent.

“Why the long face?” the man asked, concern in his voice.  “It’s the same type of thing you did last time.  You’ll do great at it.”

Brittany made no reply, but the cash register started buzzing again, slowly and reluctantly.  “That’ll be $2.17,” she said, no emotion in her voice.

“Here you are; keep the change,” the man said.  “See you tonight!”  Whistling, he walked away from the counter.  Auburn watched the legs move across the store until they reached the door.  The bell tinkled as the man left the building.

Then, almost simultaneously, the cabinet door jerked open.  “Quick!  Get out!” Brittany said, as adamant as she’d been when she’d wanted Auburn to get in.  As Auburn wriggled her way out, Brittany pointed towards the door.

“See that man in the parking lot?” Brittany said.  “Take a good look at him!”

Auburn stood up to try to see, but the man was getting in his car.  It was pointing away from the store, and Auburn was unable to get a look at his face.  She nodded, though, as if she had.

“Avoid him at all costs,” said Brittany.  “Cross the street, leave the room, stay in your car—whatever it takes, don’t let him see you!  And if he tries to talk your parents into signing you up for the club, don’t let them!  You must never—ever—let him sign you up!”

“Why?” asked Auburn.

Brittany looked at her desperately.  “I can’t tell you why,” she said, “but just trust me!  You do not want to get mixed up with that man.  He will ruin your life!  Don’t ask me any more about it; just take my word for it, and stay away from him.  He’s dangerous!”

Auburn could tell she wasn’t going to get any more information from the clerk, so she nodded.  “Okay,” she said.

“Here’s your soda,” said Brittany, handing Auburn the bottle with a hand that was still trembling.  “Have a nice day.”

Auburn barely noticed the good-bye; she was staring at the counter, where Mr. Richards’s money still lay.  George Washington stared back at her.  A one-dollar bill for a two-dollar purchase.

            So much for keep the change.