Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (29 page)

The door at the side of the house opened,
Greg stepped out into the early morning coolness, closed and locked
the door, and headed for his truck. Clay followed him in the
pre-rush hour traffic for nine miles to a small manufacturing plant
where he parked on the street instead of in the small employee’s
parking lot. The time was six forty five and the lot was filled
with cars from the night shift and the day shift early birds who
had previously arrived.

He still had time to attend yard sales and
visit several antique stores, pursuing his new legitimate business,
small as it was. Twice in a single month he had picked up older
automatic pistols, two of foreign manufacture. He seldom bought
pistols smaller than 9mm, but did have two in the .22 long rifle
caliber and a .32 caliber pistol. He was beginning to appreciate
the .32 caliber for up close work.

Before three thirty he was back at the
factory where he timed Greg’s walk from the tan metal building to
the perimeter fence and on to his truck.

Clay followed Greg for three more days until
his day shift ended and he had two days off. Greg consistently took
between twenty eight and thirty two seconds to reach his ride,
depending on the location of his parking spot.

Wednesday morning at five thirty Clay was
parked down the street from Charlie’s house eating what was
becoming his routine breakfast. At six forty Charlie moved a small
tricycle out of the driveway and backed his copper colored Fairlane
sedan out of the single car garage. He drove seven miles to an auto
parts store where he parked in an asphalt area across the alley
behind the store. There were four other cars in the lot besides
Charlie’s. Shortly after seven he carried several packages out the
back door and got in a delivery truck. Clay followed him from the
store to various auto repair garages until noon and then called it
quits for the day.

After lunch he again started calling the
remaining women who had been assaulted by the Three Lover Boys as
he had begun thinking of them. At six fifteen the following two
mornings he parked in a fast food restaurant parking lot along
Charlie’s way to work, followed Charlie to the store, and then
watched his deliveries for the morning.

By then Greg had started the evening shift,
from three to eleven. He had been selected to be the first target.
Greg was always one of the first to exit the building at the end of
his shift and Clay decided it was the time to hit him.
Literally.

He drove to the plant late the next morning
after going to eight promising yard sales. He was looking for a
spot down the street from the plant where he could park
inconspicuously fifteen minutes before the shift changed. Then he
drove past the area where Greg had always parked and continued down
the street. This area was unfamiliar to him so he drove around for
two hours, covering all the streets in a two mile area on the south
side of the plant. Driving back down three of the streets he
reviewed features he had noted, parked to walk through several
parking garages on those streets, and then went to the gym for an
afternoon workout.

Leaving the gym at four in the afternoon, he
drove to the Twelfth Street Saloon to solicit Tony’s help, and then
went home for supper.

After eating supper with the family, watching
the evening news and reading the newspaper, Clay drove to a near by
train station where he could catch the Metro toward the inner city.
A man he recognized walked over, shook hands with him and as he
passed a set of car keys into Clay’s hand said, “Black 69’ Chevelle
with a 300 horse 327 cube engine, just like you requested, parked
at space 364. The other items are in the trunk. You owe Tony two
grand for my services. See ya kid.” Clay wasn’t wearing gloves but
had a pair in the left pocket of his jacket with two extra
magazines. A 9mm MAB Model:D automatic was in the right pocket and
a silencer which had been modified to fit the French pistol was in
his right pants pocket.

At nine thirty he got off the train and
casually walked three blocks to a tow truck business he was
familiar with. The business closed at five each evening and the
owner took after hour’s calls at his house, just three miles away.
The wrecker he selected was a mid size, plenty heavy for what he
intended but also not too slow. Getting inside was easy enough and
pulling the ignition switch was no problem either. In minutes he
had the truck off the lot and was heading toward his destination.
In the rearview mirror he again positioned the fake moustache on
his lip and took the safety glasses from his shirt pocket. Pulling
up the hood on the maroon colored sweat shirt completed his
disguise.

Traffic was light and even with driving just
over the minimum posted speed limit he arrived at his destination
at ten twenty. Passing by the factory he spotted Greg’s truck and
then drove his escape route for twelve minutes before turning
around and heading back to the factory.

He double parked the tow truck on the same
side of the street Greg was parked on, and several hundred feet
behind him. The time was ten fifty. From the big truck he could see
over the other parked cars to the door through which the employees
would exit. Traffic was light now on the street which served mostly
industrial businesses but a few cars had to pass him as he sat
blocking traffic in his lane. The trucks flashers were on, but
several cars still honked in protest of the inconvenience he was
causing.

Shortly after eleven two men left the
building followed by Greg. The first two men were parked in the
lot, and before Greg was to the fence four other men had exited the
door.

Clay put the truck in gear, turned off the
blinkers and started moving ahead slowly when he saw Greg emerge
from the building. His timing over the next ten seconds would be
crucial. As the target walked down the sidewalk and approached his
truck Clay was picking up speed and getting closer to his
destination.

Greg stepped off the curb and started around
the back end of his truck. Clay was pushing the trucks engine and
had the speed up to forty.

As Greg rounded the end of his pick up, he
looked up the street for approaching traffic, and saw a red tow
truck hugging the center lane leaving plenty of room for him. He
had his black metal lunch bucket in his left hand and was pulling
his keys from the right front pocket of his Levis. Reaching the
drivers door he inserted the key in the door lock, turned, withdrew
it and wrapped his fingers around the door handle. In the same
moment the sound and movement of the red truck caught his
attention. He stayed near the side of his truck, waiting for the
wrecker to pass. Common sense told him he was safe.

Clay had been pushing the tow truck to
increase speed and had stayed to the left side of the lane,
actually a little over the line and into the other lane. As he
neared the green pick up he started edging over toward the cars
parked by the right curb. He could see Greg take the key from the
lock and move his hand to the door handle. He watched as Greg
glanced over his shoulder at the approaching truck; saw the
questioning look as Greg judged the approaching truck to be to
close to open his door and enter his truck.

As the front right bumper of the tow truck
got even with his target, Clay cut the wheel sharply to the right,
pinning Greg between the two trucks. He saw the man’s upper torso
go by the passenger's window, and could see the right side of his
face wearing a shocked and bewildered expression. He heard a
rumbling sound as the man was dragged along the front end of the
green pick up, then felt his truck bounce as the rear wheels ran
over his victims upper legs where he had fallen at the front end of
his own truck.

The front fender of the wrecker was now into
the rear quarter panel of a car parked in front of the pickup. Clay
cut the steering wheel sharply to the left to get clear of the
impediment to his escape and put the gas pedal to the floor with
the gear shift lever still in third gear. While up shifting to
fourth he looked for the right side mirror, but it was gone. By the
end of the next block he suspected the headlights behind him were
someone giving chase to the perpetrator of the hit and run accident
they had just witnessed. Slowing the truck just enough to make a
high speed right turn Clay headed for the freeway entrance ramp two
blocks away. The car behind him made the same turn and slid over
into the left lane, fishtailing as it came around. He definitely
was being chased.

Getting out onto the freeway he ran the truck
up to eighty five, weaving his way through light traffic to pass.
There were now two cars trying to catch him. Swerving over into the
right lane to go around two slower cars in the two left lanes he
hesitated before switching lanes again just long enough to let one
of the chase cars pull along side of him and then pass. As the
white Buick sedan passed and then pulled over in front of his truck
Clay first floored the gas pedal, bumping the car hard, downshifted
into third and popped the clutch while jamming on the brakes,
causing the car tail gating his truck to run into the back of the
wrecker. At the same time, with his brakes locked and his speed
dropping, he swerved to the right aiming for an exit off the
freeway. The timing of his cut had been off by a fraction of a
second and the left rear end of the truck scraped the entrance
wall, bouncing the truck off the ground and throwing it to the
right. The truck fishtailed for thirty feet in the single lane exit
as he fought to regain control and stay off the side walls.
Reaching the top of the off ramp, he slowed and then ran the red
light, turning to the left in front of two oncoming cars. Crossing
the overpass he checked the mirrors and saw what looked like a
white Buick make a high speed turn off the exit, following in his
direction. Two blocks from the freeway he made a right turn into a
narrow side street with parking lanes on both sides of the deserted
street. In the second block on his left he saw his destination, an
old eight story parking garage.

As he neared the garage entrance, he
exclaimed, Oh Shit. A car was blocking the entrance while the
driver attempted to get his parking tag out of the machine. As he
passed his blocked escape route he mentally flipped the offending
driver the bird and continued accelerating to the next corner.
Glancing in the left side mirror he could see the driver of the
white Buick was staying far enough behind so he too wouldn’t get
trapped into running into the back end of the wrecker. At the
corner he turned left and at the end of the block turned left
again. At the opposite entrance to the garage an overhead metal
gate was lowered across the opening, blocking access.

Clay silently cursed himself for not
anticipating the other entrance being closed during off hours as he
continued around to the first entrance. Rounding the last corner he
edged to the right slightly as he approached the opening, hit the
brakes and began his left turn into the now open entrance. The big
truck hit the curb with the rear left duel tires and crashed
through the lowered gate arm at the same instant. Downshifting, he
accelerated through the approach and up the entrance ramp to the
second floor. Locking up the brakes near the top of the ramp, he
stood on the pedal until the truck slowed and made a complete
momentary stop. After throwing the gearshift to neutral, he opened
the driver’s door and leapt from the truck, moving quickly to the
front end as the truck began to roll backward. The white Buick had
just turned into the entrance and was at the base of the ramp. Clay
placed both gloved hands on the trucks bumper, put his shoulder
against the fender, and pushed the truck backward with all his
strength. As the truck started rolling faster he continued to push
until the truck picked up speed. The Buick had started up the ramp,
but stopped suddenly when the driver grasped what was happening. In
his haste to back up he killed the engine.

Clay could hear the driver attempting to get
the engine restarted to escape the approaching truck, as he was
running away from the ramp and heard the loud crash when the
wrecker hit the stalled Buick. Moving up the inclined parking floor
he approached a hand rail, stepped up on the mid and then top bar
and reached for the base of the railing on the floor above.
Climbing up and over the railing he was on the third level and
quickly ran to space 364 where the black Chevelle was parked.
Driving down the exit ramps he approached the ticket booth where
another wood gate arm was lowered. He could see the attendant was
not in the booth; the guy must be over at the entrance checking out
the commotion there. The Chevelle hit the gate arm, breaking it off
back to the operator while Clay continued through the opening and
out to the street.

The white Buick was setting at an angle to
the entrance with the wrecker up against its crushed front end.
Steam was escaping from the ruptured radiator and eight or ten
people were gathered at the wreck site. At the sound of the
Chevelle crashing through the gate arm the group as a whole turned
toward the source of the new excitement. One man, who must have
been the garage attendant on duty, threw up his arms and started
shouting and waving for Clay to stop.

Making a right turn onto the street Clay
burned rubber getting away from the area. At the next block he
slowed, made a left turn and drove just over the speed limit the
rest of the way to an abandoned hulk of an old warehouse where he
parked the car inside the building.

Removing the glasses and moustache he settled
back in the driver’s seat to try to sleep for a few hours. The
split second image he had caught of Greg, what ever his last name
was, as he was pinned and being dragged and crushed between the two
trucks was vivid in his mind. The man was trapped and totally
helpless to stop what had happened to him. Surprise, fear and pain
were apparent in his facial expression; but something was lacking.
Clay regretted letting the man die without his knowing why. He
needed to see the man reconcile what he had done with the
punishment being imposed. The fact that the man was dead was only
one segment of his satisfaction. The victim should have been made
to accept his act of violence being the cause of his own
demise.