Ambushed

Ok you guys, here is my latest magnus opus. Since I obviously don't do sequels very well, here is the whole story in one lump. No sequels, either. Don't bother asking. Again, I am not a lawyer, cop, mechanic, or any other knowledgeable person. This is a fictional story I made up in my head and then put on paper for your enjoyment. Vote your conscience, but please be consistent. Don't tell me about the greatest story ever and give me a 0. That is just assinine. Stupid too. Ok, I'll shut up. Enjoy.

Introduction:

Hello. My name is Hal Taylor. This is a story of pain, heartache, betrayal, and personal failure. I'm willing to talk about what happened, because I want to stop somebody else from my mistakes. God knows I would never willingly inflict on another my suffering and shame.

Chapter 1

I lay on the ground under my truck changing the oil filter, trying to see despite the sweat dripping into my eyes. The last of the oil in the pan was dripping slowly into the disposal box. I was struggling with the stuck filter. I gave a final heave and it spun free from the engine. I dropped it into the box while reaching for the replacement filter.

I used a few drops of the old oil to lube the gasket and screwed the filter into its resting place. Cleaning off the plug, I screwed it back into the pan then checked for leaks. Finding none, I crawled out and stood up. Stretching to relieve the cramping in my shoulders, I looked around for a moment before opening the first oil can and putting it into the fill pipe. Leaving it to empty, I picked up the disposal box with its wet contents and knotted the plastic liner to prevent leaks.

The garage where I work has an oil recycling contract and I'll take what I have tomorrow when I go to work. The owner, a pretty good mechanic named Marty, is easy going and gives us a lot of leeway. The other guy, Rick, also drives the tow truck for Marty.

I have a thermometer on the outside wall of my garage and I glanced at it before switching out oil cans. Eighty five degrees in the shade is not a good time to be working on an engine I know, but I've been putting it off too long. Besides, I like the feeling I get when I'm working with my tools or on the truck; more in touch with the really basic things in life. I finished the job, cleaning as I went, then went inside for a shower and lunch.

I sat at the kitchen table eating a sandwich and drinking coffee. I had rented a one bedroom townhouse. It is clean and came furnished with just the basics; bed, dresser, table and chairs, tv on a stand, etc. I don't have pictures on the walls. I don't have knick knacks or any other personal touches. I hadn't brought anything with me that night and didn't want to acquire any more. All the pictures I could stand were burned into my memory.

My apartment is on the end of a group of four in this building which means I have neighbors only on one side. Each unit has its own garage with a small storage shed in front. Postage stamp sized lawns in the front and back and a tree or two between the buildings comprise the landscaping. This neighborhood is decidedly lower middle class, mostly tradesmen and small business owners. No upper management types live here, and prices are just out of reach for the minimum wage workers.

'It's been good enough for the last five years now,' I reflected. 'Where does the time go?' Shaking my head, I swept the crumbs into the trash can and wiped the table and counter with a moist sponge.

This is my day off and I have accomplished today's 'honey do' list, I just don't have a honey. I pulled my mind back from that very touchy subject. Over five years now and the pain was still there, almost as raw as the night my world collapsed and left my soul screaming in the void. Unbidden, my eyes overflowed with tears and they tracked over my cheeks until I quickly brushed them away.

Forcing my mind away from the pain, I went out to the truck and drove to the local multiplex theater. This was my routine. Do chores in the morning on my days off, then hide in a dark theater the rest of the day. Unless you counted the folks who have to narrate the action to their partners, I didn't have to worry about talking. Today, though, for some reason I couldn't blank my mind. I kept coming back to the past … and her… and him. What they deliberately did to me and how I couldn't stop it.

I felt someone tap me in the back and hiss to be quiet. Oh. That strange noise was from me, the moaning of unending pain. Now embarrassed at my public outburst, I left the dark theater and went into the men's room. Public restrooms at multiplex theaters were either packed full or totally empty, depending on when the various films ended. Right now, it was empty. I went to the sinks and splashed cold water on my face.

I dried off and left for the day. I didn't want to disturb anyone else. I would get an early dinner at a quiet diner I knew, then home for a little tv before bed. Finally, I noticed that the news was off, but I couldn't go to bed. I couldn't stop dredging up the painful memories of that night.

I acquiesced to the moment, knowing I wouldn't get any sleep until I went over the sequence of events one more time. With a noise which seemingly emanated from the bottom of the empty void in the center of my soul, I went back to that time in my mind. That time before I was gutted and flayed, then thrown onto the garbage heap of life.

Chapter 2

I was born and raised in a small town in Wisconsin until I was seven years old. My dad changed jobs and his new company moved him to a town in Colorado where he took over as a plant manager. It was the last week of summer vacation and everyone's life was in a turmoil.

You know, getting moved into a new house, finding directions to the stores and the mall, and starting new schools for me and my older brother Mark. It was during that second week of school that the angel of my life came into my life: Claire Masters. She had straight brown hair and deep brown eyes and was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. And she lived right next door.

It took me a long time to understand the word divorce. It meant Claire spent summers someplace with her dad and then she spent the school year with her mother. I only knew that the summer break I had once looked forward to wasn't any fun because she wasn't there.

For all practical purposes, we started going together from the first day we met at school. It seemed we were destined to be together. Grade school was a carefree time of sharing. We talked about everything because we were best friends.

During junior high school, we helped each other with the trials and tribulations of puberty and hormones. We occasionally went to dances or movies with others and each of us had fumbled around with our dates, but we always came back to each other. The experiences we had with others were relatively sterile and we discovered that we had wanted to be somewhere else. It was love at its most basic, the magic that put a special glow on everything we touched.

High school was everything that junior high hadn't been, primarily because we recognized the futility of trying for a relationship with someone else. We graduated high school in May. We married in June. We were both virgins. We'd had our chances, but it was one of those agreements we'd made without ever knowing we had agreed.

Claire's dad gave her a used blue Chevy four door sedan in good running condition as a graduation present and I had my Ford pickup. Well, my pickup now. Mark bought it when he was turning sixteen. He delivered newspapers, did odd jobs, and cleaned up at a convenience store earning the money to pay for it. Mark drove Claire and me to school until he graduated.

Mark's school grades were good enough to earn him a scholarship to Batesville community college. He found the love of his life named Marie Huddleston at the school. She was in the dental hygienist course, he was in the computer networking course, and both were located in the same building. Marie's dad was an executive with the manufacturing plant in the town's industrial park and he bought Marie a new car for a graduation present. As I said, Mark gave his truck to me and I took over driving Claire to school. When Claire received her car, we used it for going to church or other places together.

We soon found good jobs and a nice two bedroom apartment near the college in Batesville. Life was good. My job was working in the parts department of Mr. Baker's car dealership while Claire went to work as a teller in a local bank.

Three years after we married, we started thinking about having a family. We'd been saving our money for a down payment on a house and had a fairly substantial amount in a couple of CD's.

I worked from 8:30 until 5 every day .I dropped Claire off at the bank at 8:15. She worked from 8:30 to 5:30. She had an hour for lunch while I had 30 minutes. Mr. Baker's dealership where I worked was family owned and the employees were part of the extended family. Mr. Baker hosted a Christmas party every year at the VFW hall and a cook out each summer at the local lake. Everything was casual. If you didn't want to go, no problem. See you at work. No one could remember the last time somebody hadn't attended. Everyone had too much fun.

That same year we were invited to the bank's Christmas party. The bank didn't host a summertime cook out. Mr. Earl Short, the bank's president, hosted the function at his home. Formal attire, RSVPs, starts at 7pm sharp and ends at 10pm sharp. It was a lot like prom in high school. I liked it because I was able to wear my Sunday suit on a week night. Claire had some really nice dresses and some jewelry pieces she'd received as presents. It helped that she was a knock out when she dressed up. Of course, I thought she was a knock out all the time, even in ratty clothes.

Over time, we discovered that the party was usually rather stiff at the beginning, but as the alcohol flowed people loosened up and eventually some would start to dance. Claire was always a favorite to dance with, but she always danced the first and last dance with me. We'd started with that tradition in high school and it seemed that everyone knew and honored it. It made me so proud to know that I brought the most beautiful girl to the party, danced with her, and took her home at the end of the evening.

Then Satan arrived in Eden and his name was Steve Bennett.

Thirty years old with blond hair and jade green eyes, he had played linebacker in college and was still fit at 6'3" and 225 pounds. His hair was never out of place, his tan was perfect, and the glare from his smile would put out an eye at 10 paces. Yes, he smiled a lot. He was also the new VP in Charge of Commercial Loans at Claire's bank.

Of course he was married. His wife, Ellen, was a petite redhead just a foot shorter than Steve and had all the right curves, plus an extra one in the front. He was the jock and she was the trophy. He was at work and she was at home getting ready for the baby.

Claire and I discussed our workdays in the afternoon before we ate dinner, and I found her characterizations of him as the jock and his wife as the trophy interesting. I hadn't noticed that she labeled people before, so I asked her about it. She shrugged it off as being Morgana's comment and that she had found it apt. Morgana Jones was the head teller and Claire was the senior teller after her. Claire said that Mr. Short had introduced Steve to everyone at a morning meeting.

After he was settled in his office, he made a point of wandering about the bank for a day, watching how people worked with each other and the customers. If someone wasn't busy, he started a short chit chat with them as a way of introducing himself to the staff. He also chatted up some of the customers if they had time.

Over the first few weeks he was at the bank, he developed a rather close friendship with the other two vice presidents. Terry Harris was the Mortgage Loan Officer and Ken Smythe handled the administrative details for the bank, including personnel. They were all about the same age and had soon discovered a lot that they had in common. I still have trouble putting a face with the name.

Because of the differences in our work and employers, we started to separate some of the activities at work. It wasn't that the activity or gossip was that unimportant, it was more of a 'you had to be there' feeling. You know, like having to first explain a joke and then its punch line. Consequently, neither Claire nor I noticed a gradual shifting in our conversations in which we didn't discuss various aspects of our lives.

In hindsight, our problems became jarringly evident when the dealership underwent an unexpected inventory and audit. That happened to be at the same time the bank started having monthly parties after work on Fridays. Yes, they were Steve's idea. I don't know whether Mr. Short knew what was going on and approved or if Steve simply ran the old end around. You know, it's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.

Our audit started on a Thursday when a corporate inventory team arrived. The auto company which granted the franchise to Mr. Baker had a contractual right to inventory or audit at their discretion and without advance notice. Each of us had full confidence in our areas and we maintained a relaxed atmosphere. The audit team split up when they arrived with one section examining the office paperwork while the other section conduced an inventory of stock and parts on hand. When they arrived, Mr. Baker warned us that everyone would be staying until the audit team completed their business. We were a team at work. Besides taking care of specific particular areas, we all chipped in to help any one who needed assistance.

Towards the end of the day when it looked like I was going to be kept late, I made a point to call the bank and alert Claire. I didn't want to disturb Claire while she was working, so I asked Morgana to give her the message for me. We finally completed the inventory between six and six thirty after which everyone went home.

I drove by the bank just to make sure Claire wasn't still waiting for me. I didn't see anyone on my way home. Claire was waiting for me in the kitchen with dinner almost ready. We talked about the inventory team and work as usual. What I neglected to ask was how she got home, and she didn't volunteer the information.

The next day the inventory team was busily working in the office area when I arrived. I had everything ready for business when Mr. Baker called and asked me to come to his office. I left Stewart, my part time helper, to run things while I was busy. The team had just found an apparent $53,000 error between parts on hand, parts sold, and parts ordered. It took most of the day for me to find the problem. Duplicate copies of some orders had been retained in the files instead of being destroyed when the parts arrived. Mr. Baker was extremely happy to find it was a paperwork error and no one was a thief.

Stewart came into the office saying, "Hal, I shut down the computer and closed the area for the night. If you don't have anything else for me, I'd like to go home now."

"Thanks, Stewart," I replied. "I've got to pick up Claire at work. Oh, no. I forgot to call her and tell her I'd be late. I'm dead meat now."

"You go on ahead Hal," Mr. Baker said. "We have this all wrapped up here and you need to get home. Hope she's not mad all weekend."

"Thanks," I said as I turned to the door. Looking at the clock by the door as I left, I noted it was 5:15. 'Good,' I thought. 'I won't be too late to pick up Claire.' That made me happy as I got into my truck.

I drove to the rear of the bank, looking for Claire in her usual place. She wasn't there. I got out and walked to the door, but no one was inside. The bank was closed. I checked the doors, but no one had put a sign up stating they would be closed early. It was 5:35 according to my watch and a clock on the wall I could see from the door. The bank closed at 5:30, but the drive thru was open until 7:00pm. It was also closed for the day.

'Holy shit,' I thought. 'I wonder how everyone got away so quickly?' After pondering the question for a couple of minutes, I decided to go on home. I decided I would take her out on the town tonight as a way to apologize. We hadn't done anything together for awhile and I wanted to show my love a good time.

I arrived home at 5:45, just half an hour since I left work. Claire's car was in its usual spot. The apartment was silent and Claire wasn't home. I went to the answering machine to check messages, but no one had called. I went through the apartment, room by room, looking for a note from her. Nothing. 'What the hell,' I thought. 'This isn't like her. Where could she be?'

I stripped and took a shower, then changed into a nice shirt and pair of slacks. I moved into the living room and sat in my recliner to wait for her to arrive home. Finally, I turned on the television and stared at it for awhile. I tired of listening to my stomach grumble, so I went to the kitchen and fixed a sandwich and nuked a bowl of soup. I ate, cleaned up, and went back to watching television.

The news had just gone off and Letterman was starting when a car's headlights flashed through the windows. A car pulled up out front and I heard laughing and then a loud good night as a door slammed. The car drove off and a moment later Claire walked into the front room. She was drunk on her ass, reeling and staggering through the front door. She paused a moment to get her bearings, then she went into the bedroom. I followed her, waiting for her to say something. Hell, even hello. She walked to the bed and turned to sit on the edge. As soon as she sat down, she collapsed backwards onto the bed. She'd passed out without saying a word and I was pissed.

'Well, at least she didn't land on the floor,' I thought. I stood looking at the woman I loved and wondered just what the hell was going on. We had gotten drunk together a few times, but the definitive word was 'we'. Well, it was pretty obvious at this point I wouldn't be getting any information.

With a heavy sigh to myself, I moved to put her to bed. I stripped her out of her clothes, pulled the blankets back, and slid her into the bed, naked. I went back out to watch Letterman. Finally, I turned off the tv and went to the bedroom and stripped. Claire was snoring and had flopped around on the bed. She hadn't puked on the bed, but she reeked of cigarette smoke and alcohol. 'Screw this,' I thought as I grabbed a blanket and went out to sleep on the couch.

I awoke the next morning rather grumpy. I lay still for a few minutes, then got up. I folded the blanket and put it back in the closet. I went through my morning routine, then grabbed my robe and went outside and retrieved the paper. Then I went to the kitchen. I had coffee going and eggs cooking when she finally came into the room and sat at the table. I ignored her. I scraped the eggs onto my plate along with my bacon. Turning, I set the plate and my coffee cup on the table, then started eating while looking at the paper.

"Don't I even get a good morning?" Claire huffed.

I looked up from the paper while I was chewing. She looked like shit with bags under her eyes and she hadn't cleaned her smeared makeup. She still reeked.

I swallowed my egg, I sipped my coffee, then looked into her eyes and said, "Good morning. You need a shower." I forked some more food into my mouth and went back to the paper.

I finished eating, rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher for later. I cleaned up my mess and went to the bedroom. I decided to wear the clothes I had changed into last night. Couldn't really get dirty sitting in a recliner watching the tv, after all. I moved to the sofa to put my shoes on. I'd left them where I had taken them off the night before.