Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

as the blinking red light became a solid—not how the situation was to play out. He tried it again and got the same result.

“What’s this now?” he whispered, hoping it wouldn’t work while simultaneously wishing it would.

He squinted and tried a one where he’d used a seven. The box beeped and a green light lit. For a moment there, he’d considered simply walking away.

After hitting the rest of the lights inside, he used the tail of his jacket to wipe the door handle and the security box. Though that was probably pointless; how many times had he touched everything in the warehouse? So many plausibly deniable prints everywhere. Then again, it was possible all other prints would be wiped, maybe there was a grand scheme within the scheme, something that put him behind bars. Intentionally.

“You’re being paranoid,” he said, but knew better, deep down. He glanced at one of two cameras inside the warehouse. Cary and Linda had taken care of that issue earlier in the week. “Better have,” he said to nobody—apparently the drive where the footage collected had met an unfortunate accident and Dwayne never checked the collected footage unless something seemed out of wack.

On the floor, Craig and Danny had been to work on Linda’s purview. The most important, most valuable stuff was front and center, but he’d have to cart the heavier objects around them—as if he wouldn’t know to grab the boxes of fancy new iPod gadgets or the Sony and Panasonic video cameras.

The room was about one hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. The used stuff was where it always was, secluded at the far end as if it might taint the boxed-up goods. The rows of washers and dryers began from there—washers on the bottom and dryers on top, sometimes the dryers were stacked two high, though they wouldn’t be a main focus tonight. Then came the ranges and fridges—ranges stacked two high, but not fridges, they were too big and too easily ruined by a fall. Next came the small stuff, mostly electronics, from speakers to headphones to satellite dishes; clustered goods rising to about six feet up, all inside packed boxes. Lastly came the TVs, little units set on top of larger ones. Simple, logical. He’d clean the best of the electronics out after he filled up with the stainless steel and specialty finish appliances because as just one man loading a huge trailer, he couldn’t stack much of anything without an extra set of hands.

He walked to the front wall and the loading bay. He pulled on the rough, leather, work gloves from his jacket pocket and opened the door without leaving a print. He’d suddenly began thinking like he was in a low-budget Mission Impossible reboot. Traces from his prior visits could be all over, but he’d do his best to not so much as spill a drop of sweat on the floor this time. As if they could carbon date sweat. And if they could, as if they’d bother over what would appear to be insurance fraud.

The gloves were clumsy for little things, but great when the weight of appliances threatened to bruise or tear skin. Parked against a wall by the bay doors were three dolly carts and a single mechanical cart with straps and double railings; it was slower as it had small wheels, but the only way to move huge appliances down stairs. There were no stairs here, only the slim dip where the trailer touched the bay doorframe, so he’d risk a regular cart.

A white-domed ceiling light in the trailer revealed a quarter of the space had already been filled—Rusty had an inclining that the guys might just screw him for kicks and let him load the whole damned truck by himself. Though, who was going to joke about this? The biggest and most expensive fridges filled the far end, closest to the truck itself. Manhandling those huge units would’ve been a tall feat all by his lonesome.

He grabbed a dolly and rolled to the fridges, and after reading the descriptions on the boxes of only simple, middle-income household appliances, he switched focus to the most expensive wash machines. He climbed up and lowered dryers out of the way—they were significantly lighter in weight and value. He put the cart under a frontload washer, rocking it three times to get a steady grip and the cart tilted.

He then heard something piggish—all snorts and grunts and swishing feet. A fist connected with his cheek before he got the washer to much of anywhere. A black stain flashed.

“Little bastard!” Dwayne shouted.

Rusty stumbled before sprawling sideways, sliding on the shiny cement floor and knocking his knee hard enough to make him grimace. He turned his head, once again that day, he had been jarred inactive by unfolding events, helpless to what was coming, and thought, dumbly, that hurts! Once the black stain fizzled out, Rusty saw that Dwayne had a bloody lip and a puffy eye. There was blood on his mostly open button-up shirt and his pendulous belly swayed above the waistband of his pants.

He came charging, his gut meat tipping from side to side, and once overtop Rusty, dropped to his knees, plowing the air from Rusty’s lungs. A great double crack rang out and pain bloomed. A fist landed against Rusty’s cheek, doing little damage to his front half, but his head slammed down, opening a trickling gash at the back where his head met cement. So much for not spilling any evidence on this visit…then again, what could it matter anymore?

Dwayne knew and had him.

“I’m not a failure! You’re all against me!”

Rusty blinked dazedly, half thinking wrong and right as Dwayne slapped him with his palm and then on the backswing with his knuckles. The vibrating heat from the palm was tremendous and the knuckles had Rusty’s eyes rolling like dice in their sockets.

“You