(This is the third installment concerning the attack that took place at my local Wal~Mart earlier this year. In case you missed part one or part two, go there first.)
Tooling home from work on the interstate earlier this evening I look over at the car passing me on the right and there's salsa guy behind the wheel. My reaction?
Anyway, after regaining my composure, I noticed he wasn't cold-bloodedly staring me down
again--he looked oblivious really--so I let him get a few car lengths in front
of me... and then the tailing began.
Yes,
my mind was ajumble. I didn't have any weapons with me... erm, scratch
that: tire iron in trunk. Made a mental note to pack
it when he stopped, but of course forgot to do so when the time came.
Cell phone's battery registered one bar; did I think to plug it into my cigarette lighter for a quick boost? Enough of a jolt to at least call nine one one? Of course not.
The further we drove the more it started taking on a curious resemblance to a bad idea. Shadows lengthened, people turned on their headlights. How was I ever gonna explain this to Dawn?? Ran into a friend after work? We went for coffee at The Bistro? No, they're not open this late. Ah, right: we went to Starbucks. I could just hear her say, "But you hate Starbucks."
"I know hun," I would reply, "but that's where Skeeter wanted to go. It was either there or some smoky bar, and you wouldn't want that, would you?"
I shook my head and--seeing that I was gaining on salsa guy--reduced my speed.
We
continued on, driving well past my off-ramp--22 miles to be exact--but luckily I had filled
the tank
that morning. When he finally exited the freeway, I just knew he knew I'd
been following him.
But
he drove straight into a brand new subdivision like he was none the wiser.
And then right into the waiting open garage of a chocolate and cheese faux Tudor in the
'burbs. I smoothly drove by as his garage door closed itself. Went
around the block. Started ambling toward his house, using my now completely dead
Razr as a prop in case anyone wondered why I was out for a walk.
Talking to myself I wended my way through salsa guy's neighborhood like I knew what I was doing. "OK," I said to my very thin, dead phone, "I can do this. Gotta get a hold of myself."
I paused so it would appear I was letting the other person talk.
"That's right: regroup. Got to think this through."
Another pause.
I sort of heard the other person ask about my tire iron. "No," I responded. "I, uh, apparently don't need it. Doubling back at this point wouldn't look so good."
Suddenly I remembered I still didn't get his license plate. "Street address. Got to remember to get the number as I walk by."
And then I heard a woman screaming. Just one scream. A relatively quiet one too: not blood-curdling, but probably not muffled either; it pretty much blended with the ambient street noises. And it came from salsa guy's house. I jogged onto his next door neighbor's lawn, then over to the side of his house. As this was a fairly new subdivision, the erection of privacy fences appeared helter-skelter: some completed, others partway, and some not even started yet, like the one that would soon separate salsa guy from his neighbor to the north.
Peeking in his
window I see him--all puffed up and full
of himself--and an evidently distraught woman. Then he backhands her
across the face. I knew
it was neither the time nor the place to just barge right into their business, so I maintained my
position. Tried my cell again: batteries still too low.
Just
then he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to another room. I
followed, outdoors of course, but a red and white checkerboard curtain covered the
window to the room where he kept yelling and she kept protesting.
FORWARD to what happened next
BACK to what happened first
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