Thirst in Flight
A shorty story about a disturbing series of events that took place on my block.
Greta Miller slowly lifted her heavy eyelids and was immediately blasted with sunlight that was rudely beaming in through the window next to her queen size bed. She yawned and rolled over to check the time. Squinting into the sunlight, a soft pounding started near her temples and she slowly became aware of the dry sensation in her mouth. She grabbed the large glass of water on the crowded nightstand and proceeded to gulp it down. When she’d finished, she turned back to look at the clock. Shit, it was almost 10 a.m.
She must have forgotten to set her alarm in her tipsy, sleepy state last night. Luckily, her job didn’t require answering to an angry boss, donning clean and ironed slacks, or even showering. Greta lazily threw back the sheets and clambered out of bed. She felt slightly lightheaded as she peered around at the clothing littering her bedroom floor. Where had she put her NDSU gym shorts? After a couple sweeps of the piles dotting the floor, she spotted a dark green mesh material and pulled on the shorts she wore for dog walking. She hastily threw on a hoodie, pulling it down to cover the ratty old T-shirt she had slept in, not bothering to put a bra on. She proceeded to pull her hair back in a messy bun, cram her feet into her sneakers, grab her car keys and the Spencers’ house key from the kitchen table, and head for the front door.
The late morning light assaulted Greta’s eyes as she quickly made her way to the car, keeping her head down until she wrenched open the driver side door, to search for her sunglasses. After what seemed an eternity of digging around, her fingers finally brushed the smooth glass surface of a heavily scratched lens under the passenger seat. Now, with her eyes shielded from the sun, she started the old, beat up Honda Civic her parents had bought her as a high school graduation present six years ago. It had been old then, and these six years of almost complete neglect, besides keeping the gas tank filled and sporadic oil changes, left the car looking like it was on its last life. Greta didn’t mind the poor condition of her reliable Civic though. It got her from A to B without breaking down, not to mention its superb gas mileage. What more could a fresh out of college young adult with a crippling monthly student loan payment ask for?
Soon Greta was cruising down Broadway and listening to a recap of the presidential debate on NPR while worrying about whether or not Rue, the Spencers’ three-year-old German Shepard, had managed to hold the urge to pee all morning. Luckily, Rue couldn’t tattle on Greta to her parents. Greta could simply clean up the pee on the floor and no one would be the wiser. It was nearing 10:40 when she pulled onto the street where a very large German Shepherd with a full bladder was waiting
for her in the white three-story house, second one on the left. But as soon as the house came into sight, so did the flashing lights.
Greta braked and the car slid to a stop in the middle of the road. There were no fewer than eight police cars, an ambulance, and a firetruck. The street was completely closed to traffic with roadblocks and the entire yard’s perimeter was surrounded by posts with yellow tape that said “crime scene”. There was a stretcher sitting next to the ambulance with a large black bag occupying it; the bag didn’t look empty. The crime scene was situated at the house directly to the right of the Spencers’, and its lawn was completely covered in grim-looking police officers and other first responders with perplexed faces. “What the. . .?” Greta said to herself.
One of the officers, whose assignment must have been to keep the road clear and people away from the house, strode over to the red Honda Civic containing the gawking onlooker. When the middle-aged, round-bellied officer reached the driver side window, he rapped his knuckles on the glass and motioned for Greta to roll down the window. The officer’s presence took a few seconds to sink in and for Greta to shakily reach her hand toward the button that controlled the window.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to turn your vehicle around. This street is currently closed and will likely remain closed for the next several hours. Do you live on this street or are you just driving through?” he said.
“I. . . uh. . . I’m just um. . . I need to get to this house right here. My job. . .” she stuttered, pointing at the house. Then some ability to think coming back to her, “What happened?”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at the moment, but no need to worry. We’ve got it covered. You’re completely safe,” the officer said sternly. Greta nodded, still staring at the house.
“What were you saying about your job? You work here?” the officer asked.
“I’m a dog walker. The family that lives at this house right here is on vacation in Nicaragua, and I’m supposed to take care of their dog while they’re gone. I need to get into that house to at least let the dog out to use the bathroom and walk her if possible,” Greta answered, now looking at the officer.
“Can’t let you walk around with the dog I’m afraid. The street is closed to all traffic; that includes pedestrians. You can go inside and let the dog out in the backyard. Looks like there’s a fence,” the officer replied curtly.
“Okay. Where can I park?” Greta said.
“You can turn around right here and go up one block. You should be able to find a spot along that street and then walk back over. I’ll inform the other officers of your business here,” and he
turned and walked away before Greta could say thanks or ask more questions about that body bag on the stretcher.
With the Honda parked a little too far away from the curb on the next street over, Greta fumbled for her keys and somehow managed to get out of the car and stand erect; even though her legs felt like jelly. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Had someone been murdered? Or did an elderly neighbor pass away? But if so, why all the cops?
Making sure the Honda was locked, Greta made her way along the short stretch of sidewalk that would lead her back to the crime scene and to Rue. She turned onto the street and had soon reached the driveway when she saw a man being escorted out of the neighbor’s house, hands handcuffed behind his back, his head hung low. The man was young and pale, and he was wearing a plain black T-shirt and long, dark jeans that dragged behind his flip-flops. Greta was too far away to tell for sure, but she thought he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in a few days. She wondered if he had killed whoever was lying motionless in that body bag.
After what seemed like ages, Greta reached the front door, inserted her copy of the key, and let herself in. Rue was already there, waiting to greet her. It was so late now and Rue made it very obvious she desperately had to pee by running back and forth between the back door and where Greta stood in the entryway. Greta followed Rue to the backdoor and let her out. As soon as Rue’s paws had touched green grass, she squatted for a very long time. “Poor Rue. I’m sorry girl,” she said.
Once inside, Greta filled Rue’s food and water bowl and went into the dining room to see if she could get a better look at the arrest unfolding next door. She could see the pale man in the backseat of a police car. He seemed to be staring at his lap, or perhaps he had nodded off, exhausted from his previous exertions. Greta didn’t think he looked like the killing type, but what does a killer look like exactly? Who has the look of a killer? She pictured herself walking down the crowded aisles of Walmart and mentally placing people into one of two categories: killer or not a killer. A short man with bronzed bulging biceps and an expressionless face, definitely not a killer; he’s too into himself to even think about another human being. An unshowered new mother with greasy hair and dark circles under her eyes pushing her newborn in a shopping cart down the home cleaning product aisle, definitely a killer. I’d kill anyone who smiled at me if I were in her shoes.
A cold, wet nose on the palm of her hand pulled her out of the Walmart aisles and back to the dining room window where she stood scrutinizing a crime scene. Rue looked up at Greta expectantly. She was ready for her walk. “I’m sorry girl. We can’t do a W-A-L-K today. We’ll have to do something fun inside. Where’s your ball? Go find your ball.” Rues ears perked up, listening intently
to Greta. When she heard ball, she turned on her heels in pursuit of her dirty yellow tennis ball. Within a few seconds, Rue was back, tennis ball in her mouth, and a string of drool forming on her chin. “Good girl! Fetch in the living room, then?”
Greta spent the next twenty minutes throwing a slobber-drenched ball. Rue spent it running after the pesky ball, aggressively retrieving it, and then coming to sit proudly in front of her playmate awaiting praise and for the exercise to repeat itself. Greta’s attention span faded before Rue’s did, and they spent another fifteen minutes cuddling on the couch with the red and blue flashing lights dancing along the floor and walls of the living room. Greta was only paid to feed, water, and walk Rue for a total of thirty minutes, but she was finding it hard to leave. She wanted to witness everything happening next door. Her curiosity was holding her hostage. After an unknown span of time, Greta managed to peel herself off the couch to let Rue out one last time before she left.
…
The next day a smiling server was placing a plate of lemon ricotta pancakes topped with powdered sugar and berries in front of Greta. Her mouth was watering and her stomach growling, but she waited politely for her three friends to be served their breakfast before picking up her knife and fork and digging in. The pancakes were so flavorful and sweet on their own that maple syrup would only have ruined them. After the first few bites and some sips from her steaming cup of coffee, Emily, seated directly across from Greta, asked the table, “So, did you guys hear about the two murders in North Fargo yesterday? It was within walking distance from campus, but I guess they took place at two different locations.” Everyone’s stunned faces told her no.
“Yeah, it was in the paper this morning. Some guy got in a fight with his girlfriend. It turned violent. He fled. I guess killing someone and fleeing makes you thirsty because he stopped at a random house to ask for a glass of water. Weird, right?” Everyone nodded in agreement. Emily was always doing weird things that only old people do, like reading newspapers and knitting. Greta and her other friends never knew what was going on in their hometown. Greta always made sure to stay up to date on national and even some international news with NPR and podcasts, but Emily was her trusted source for all things local. Emily continued with her news reporting, “Then that guy must’ve looked at him funny or something because he killed him too.” She paused, waiting for a reaction.
“What? That’s what happened? I was there yesterday. I saw the guy. I can’t believe this,” Greta looked like she was in shock. “Do you have the paper with you?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got it here in my purse,” Emily said, handing the paper over to Greta. There it was, right on the front page, “Double Homicide in North Fargo.” As Greta’s eyes hungrily swept back and forth across the page, the series of events seemed to unfold before her very eyes. She stared at the black and white photo of Fred Friers, and then she was there with Fred Friers in Becca Seward’s, the girlfriend’s, house.
It was like she had fallen into the pensieve in Dumbledore’s office in Harry’s fourth year at Hogwarts, but this was Friers’s memory and they were in North Fargo. Greta was standing directly behind Friers in a narrow hallway that seemed to connect the kitchen to the living room. Friers was in a shouting match with a very tall, bony woman, whom Greta assumed to be Becca. She had at least six inches on Friers, and her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail. It was hard to say who was angrier. Friers was definitely louder.
Greta tuned in to the argument as Friers was yelling, “What were you doing over there with him? I know you were over there. Don’t lie to me!”
“You’re being paranoid! You’re such a jealous jerk! I told you already. I was at my mom’s. How many times do I have to say it?” Becca spat back.
“Oh yeah? And if I called your mom, what would she tell me?” an evil grin spreading across his face.
“Go ahead. Call her.” She handed her cellphone to Friers but looked nervous. It was obvious to Friers and Greta she was bluffing.
“Just admit it! You were over there fucking him, weren’t you?” Greta couldn’t see Friers’ face; but from the look on Becca’s, his expression must have been threatening.
Before his girlfriend could respond, Friers shoved her forcefully back into the kitchen. Friers gave her another shove and she fell backward, hitting the back of her head on the edge of the countertop. Curled into a fetal position on the kitchen tile and shaking, she touched the area where the piercing pain was coming from and brought her trembling hand back up to her face; her fingers were covered in her own blood. Her eyes traveled up to Friers in disbelief. Her eyes no longer held anger but were full of fear. She seemed to plead to Friers with those eyes, begging him not to hurt her. Friers either didn’t notice or didn’t care because he proceeded to kick her hard in the abdomen. Greta gasped and turned away, running down the hall. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she fled the horrific scene.
In the living room now, she could still hear Friers shouting and swearing as he delivered repeated blows to Becca’s body. It wasn’t long until the sobbing and profanity coming from the
kitchen ceased. All Greta could hear was Friers’ heavy breathing. Then, she heard footsteps on linoleum and the backdoor open and close. Friers was running.
Greta, making sure to keep her head down and eyes averted from the kitchen, tore down the hallway and flung open the backdoor. Her eyes raked the shaded backyard. Then she saw him. She managed to glimpse Friers hopping the privacy fence before completely disappearing from sight. What the hell. . .? she thought but she chased after him just the same.
Clearing the tall, wood fence with ease, she landed softly on an overgrown flower bed on the other side. Friers was already pulling himself up and over the stretch of fence that separated this backyard from the one directly next to it. What the hell is he doing? Why is he only going through backyards? Greta pondered for an instant before sprinting over to the spot where Friers had disappeared and clambered over the fence. This procedure was repeated five times before Friers deviated from the backyard fence-hopping escape plan he had concocted.
Friers was standing in the middle of this backyard, breathing heavily, almost panting, and looked up at the house. It was the Smiths’ neighbor’s house. He stood there for a while just staring at it. Greta wasn’t sure if he was taking a breather or contemplating his next move. Friers stood completely still for several minutes, gasping for air, sniffing, and studying the house before him. Then, he seemed to have regained his composure because he immediately took a decided step toward the backdoor. It was the strangest scene; Friers walked up the three short steps to the low set deck and knocked on the backdoor, as if this was perfectly normal, knocking on a backdoor and not the front.
It was a while before the backdoor was opened and a man, probably in his early thirties, with large, watery eyes, a round nose, thin lips, and a receding hairline peered through the narrow opening in the doorway. He wore a navy blue dress shirt that was neatly tucked into jeans and held there by a chestnut colored belt. He didn’t try to hide the bewildered expression on his face on finding a very sweaty man on his deck. “Uh. . . can I help you with something?” he asked warily.
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” Friers asked this favor as if it were something he did everyday.
The man stared at Friers, his mouth hanging open. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and looked down as he hesitantly answered, “Um. . . I’m kind of in a hurry. I was supposed to be at church ten minutes ago.” This was his polite way of saying no, but Friers insisted, “I’m really thirsty. It’d just be a minute. Please.”
He hesitated for a second before saying, “Okay, wait here. I’ll be back in a minute with a glass of water.” He pulled the door closed gently and wandered back into the depths of his house.
Friers waited, staring at the door. A minute went by, then two, then three. Friers was visibly agitated. He kept pulling his right hand out of his pocket to run his fingers through his hair. Every now and then he’d let out a sigh of frustration. Then he started anxiously tapping his foot. He’s going to lose it if this guy doesn’t bring him his water soon, Greta thought.
Something seemed to have snapped inside Friers because he made a disconcerted grunt and angrily let himself inside. “Oh god!” Greta shrieked. She didn’t dare go after and witness the assured atrocities taking place inside. Greta heard Friers’s shouts, a loud crash, lots of pounding and whimpering, and then nothing. Friers didn’t reappear, nor did the man who had gone to retrieve a glass of water for his murderer. Greta swallowed hard and then ventured inside.
She looked to the left and saw a pair of legs jutting out from around the corner; they were lifeless and sticking out at odd angles. She looked to the right and saw Friers sitting on the couch, a glass of water in his hand staring at a spot on the floor. He sat there sipping water and staring blankly. When he had consumed the last drop of water, he stood up and pulled his cellphone from his back pocket, dialed three numbers, and said in a calm, steady voice, “I’d like to report two murders.”
