Apprehended - A Short Story

Saturday night. Wilson sat hunched at his kitchen table, arms resting on the tabletop. Beside him, a shortwave radio spilled classical music into the air. Bach, he thought it was. He wasn't sure which piece, but he didn't care. To listen, to drink in the richness of the music – that was all he wanted. He relaxed and closed his eyes and buried his head in his arms.

A crackle of static sizzled through the speakers and made Wilson jump. He eyed the radio with annoyance and reached out to mess with the dial. Suddenly a man's voice cut into the air, crisp and authoritative and demanding to be heard. Wilson pulled his hand away and listened, curious.

“We interrupt this program,” said the voice, “to bring you this important news bulletin. One hour ago, convicted murderer James Laarson escaped from police custody and is now at large in the city. Laarson is five-foot three, black-haired, clean shaven, and carries a scar above his left eye. He is armed and extremely dangerous. The police advise -”

Wilson flicked the radio switch off – silence. He sat back in his chair and ran one hand through his hair thoughtfully. An escaped convict was roaming the streets of his home city: that didn't happen very often. Not that he needed to be alarmed. He had no reason to think the killer was strolling up and down this particular street in this particular neighborhood. There were hundreds of streets and hundreds of neighborhoods. Why should he choose this one?

Why not? The counter-question buzzed insistently at the back of Wilson's brain. He tried to ignore it: it wouldn't be ignored. He sighed and pushed back his chair and got to his feet. It couldn't hurt to be cautious.

He inspected all the downstairs windows and made sure each one was closed and locked. Then he checked the front and back doors, both of which featured two bolts. Wilson generally used only one; tonight he used both. Having satisfied himself on all accounts, he turned off the lights and went upstairs. The radio sat on the kitchen table, cold and quiet and in the dark.

Upstairs there were two bedrooms – Wilson's own and one intended for guests. The latter was seldom used, but Wilson checked it anyway. The window on the far side of the room was open, ushering in a cool night draft. He slid it shut, then tried the locks. They were stuck fast. He swore. They'd been that way for months, and he hadn't bothered to get them replaced. He drew the curtains closed. Nothing he could do about it now.

Wilson entered his own room, locking the door behind him. He locked the window, too. Then he undressed and pulled on his pajamas. Before crawling into bed, he opened the drawer of his nightstand and took out the revolver he'd stashed there. He had bought it years ago at a local gun show, never used it except on the shooting range. He held it in his hands for a minute, then slipped it under his pillow. Just in case.

Darkness. Silence.

Noise.

Wilson's eyes shot open. He blinked, getting accustomed to the blackness, and then looked around the room. The bright red digits on the clock face showed two forty-one am – five hours since he'd retired to sleep. Something had woken him – he wasn't sure what, but something had. He listened, straining to catch the slightest sound.

Noise.

His heart beat quickened. He felt under his pillow and grasped the gun.

Noise.

It was right outside his bedroom door now. The tread of feet trying not to be heard. Impossible, he thought. The noise ceased. He listened. He could hear heavy breathing. The door knob clicked as an unseen hand tried to turn it.

Wilson pointed the revolver at the door and fired. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Click.

The air trembled as the reports gave way to screaming silence. Wilson sat frozen, hardly daring to move, the gun smoking and empty in his trembling hands. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he stirred himself and threw off the covers and switched on the lamp beside his bed. He reloaded his gun, then stood up and edged cautiously toward the door. Six holes riddled the thin plywood frame. He shuddered. There was a click as he drew back the hammer on his gun.

He listened for a full minute without hearing a thing. Slowly, he opened the door and stepped out, gun held at arm's length. All was quiet. Nothing stirred in the darkened hallway. He flipped the light switch, flooding the place with an intense yellowy whiteness. He looked.

Blood spatters decorated the wall and carpet with lurid crimson brilliance. Less than five feet away, at the head of the stairs, lay the body of the intruder. His expressionless face stared up at the ceiling and one hand clutched a small semi-automatic. His chest was a mess. And above his left eye was a scar.

Wilson sank to the floor in relief, only to be hit by a wave of nausea. He vomited all over the red-stained carpet, vomited until he had nothing left, until his stomach was empty. He dry-heaved for a full-minute. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got up and staggered back into his bedroom. He picked up the phone and began punching the numbers with his forefinger.

“Hello, operator?” he rasped. “Get me the police.”

There was a pause, then a voice: “Officer Harrison speaking. What -”

“Officer,” Wilson said, weeping his words into the receiver, “this is Wilson Donaghue, one thirty-six South, Chancery Street. I've just shot James Laarson.”

No response.

“Don't you hear me?” Wilson was almost hysterical by now. “I've just shot James Laarson! I've killed him, dead, on the floor, do you hear?”

“Sir,” Harrison cut in sharply, “that's not possible.”

“What? What d'you mean 'not possible'!”

“Sir, we apprehended James Laarson over two hours ago. He's in custody now.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.