No Place to Hide

Doug Peterson stepped delicately off the bottom rung of the ladder, pulling the empty cardboard box off the top shelf and placing it on the counter. He glanced up at the restocked ammunition and, satisfied, turned to break down the box he had just pulled from.

The ache in his knee refused to go anywhere. The four Advil he took everyday with his morning oatmeal had long since stopped doing the trick, but old habits die hard. Hobbling forward, and out of boredom, Doug reached the end of the glass case, pulled cleaning supplies out from underneath the counter, and started methodically cleaning his workspace.

Most weekdays began the same. Unlock, restock, and clean. People typically didn’t come buy weaponry mid-morning on a Tuesday. A small bell trilled, pulling Doug’s attention to the front of the store. His rhythmic motions halted abruptly. Standing before him was a kid. He sported a bruise on his cheek and dried blood ringed his nostril. He had obviously attempted to clean it up, but it had obviously been a hasty job and he still bore the signs of a recent fight. He held his right arm against his torso, as if he were trying to avoid injuring it further. But what caused Doug the most hesitation was the fear behind the youth’s dark eyes.

The kid glanced behind him, then hurried to the counter and placed an old handgun on the counter.

“I need some ammo for this,” he muttered quickly and quietly. “Can you help me?”

Doug eyed the kid, placed his hand on the pistol, and pulled it closer, inspecting the firearm. It was dinged up, not cleaned or cared for very well.

“Is this yours?” Doug grunted.

The kid paused before nodding once.

“Where did you get it?”

“My dad.”

Doug placed the gun back on the counter.

“I’m sorry kid, I can’t help you.”

Doug saw the teenager’s eyes widen and he started sputtering excuses and demands. Doug held up his hand to stop the boy.

“How old are you anyway?” He asked the boy in front of him.

“I’m 18,” he responded immediately.

“Do you have ID?”

The teen’s eyes dropped and he muttered something under his breath.

“Listen,” Doug said, his voice stern. “The choice to sell anything in this store ultimately rests on my shoulders. If you cannot prove that you are old enough, you still look aggravated, distressed, and frankly distracted. I am exercising my better judgment by refusing to sell you anything.”

The boy reached into his pocket, but before Doug could react, a massive wad of creased and crumpled bills were slammed to the table.

“Please,” he whispered. “Take all of it, I just need some ammo.” His eyes glistened in the fluorescent light of the store and his voice broke slightly. Doug wondered if his initial impression of the boy was wrong, but the unease in his gut didn’t dissipate.

The boy met Doug’s eyes greedily, pleadingly. Something was wrong, he was sure of it at this point. Doug pushed the money back toward the kid.

“I’m not taking your money,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “It’s simply a matter of the law. I am not allowed to sell anything to…” He faded off as the teenager glanced back over his shoulder out the front of the store.

“Listen,” Doug started, “if you’re in troub—”

The boy snapped his head back around.

“Do you have a bathroom?” he practically yelled as, without waiting for a response, he walked toward the open door in the back of the showroom. Doug, momentarily stunned, didn’t say anything until the boy was nearly through the door.

“It’s through the first door on the left,” he hollered toward the retreating figure, “but if you need some help, I have men that I trust on the force. We can work something—”

The bell chimed again and, turning, Doug saw a large burly man walk in and nod at him, smiling. He turned and started browsing some of the accessories on racks in front of the store. Doug looked down and saw that the boy had not only left the handgun he brought in, but the wad of cash that he had pulled out of his pocket, too. He looked up at the man. The newcomer was facing the front of the store, so Doug reached forward and quietly pulled the items left by the youth back behind the counter.

A few seconds passed, then the large man approached the counter and began asking Doug questions about one of the rifles hanging on the wall. The conversation was polite, even cordial. But the questions eventually morphed into more vague inquiries about the nature of the store.

“Do you get busy most mornings?” the man asked, leaning forward onto the glass case in front of him. His palms clasped and Doug noticed that his knuckles were red, almost chafed.

“Depends,” Doug replied noncommittally.

“Right,” the man replied slowly. “I’m sure most weekdays you don’t get much business.”

“Not necessarily,” Doug said, again trying to shift the conversation.

“What about today?” he asked more directly. “Anyone come in before me?”

“Sure,” Doug replied, “I’ve had a few people come in, but they were mostly just browsing. You’re the first person that actually seems interested in buying something.” He added with a chuckle.

The man smiled cordially and dropped his head so Doug could no longer see his face.

“I need to know if someone specific came in,” he said, the humor and friendliness dropped from his voice. “Could you do that for me?” Doug hesitated before replying.

“I’m not typically in the business of giving out details on my patrons. And besides, I’m not sure I would be able to give you much information regardless. I was busy getting things set up here.” Doug patted the case as he spoke.

“What about a teenager?” The man looked up concern plastered to his face. He looked like a man who had lost something. Something he really cared about.

His expression nearly caused Doug to reply in the affirmative, giving the man the information he was looking for, but his gut nudged him a different direction.

“Not that I was aware of,” he said, refusing to look away from the distress in the man’s eyes.

“He would have been skinny, a little under six foot?”

“Maybe he slipped in, but I didn’t see anyone.”

The man looked into Doug’s eyes, then the slightest smile broke through, and his expression changed immediately.

“Who were you talking to when I walked in?”

“Wh—, What?”

“You were saying something to someone back there,” the man’s head jerking toward the open door to Doug’s left. “Who were you talking to?”

“My… my wife came by to drop off some lunch. She usually parks in the alley behind the store and uses the back exit though.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“At my lunch?”

“No, at the back exit.”

Doug, tightness building in his sternum, nodded toward the open door.

The man thanked him and began walking toward the hallway. Each step reverberated around the nearly empty storefront, seemingly carrying the weight of Doug’s conversations and decisions.

Without looking down, Doug reached underneath the counter and grabbed the handgun left by the youth. Withdrawing it from underneath, he accidentally knocked the pile of bills onto the floor. He swore under his breath and glanced down, hastily storing the firearm in the back of his pants.

Among the bills was a white piece of paper, scribbled with crayon. Doug bent down to pick it up. His stomach dropped.

On the paper was a hastily scrawled message. The handwriting looked like it had come from someone in early primary school. Maybe eight? Or nine?

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”