With that realization, a great flood of relief washed over Frank’s prone and motionless body. He had grown tired of his seemingly endless trips either to the Portland jail or OHSU Hospital. Maybe I’ll pull it off this time, he told himself in his most convincing monologue. Maybe just this once I won’t get caught—I mean…I did plan ahead this time…gun, mask, rope…sure would be nice not to go back to jail! That idea, however, was somewhat short-lived, as Frank now realized that he couldn’t move without setting the lights off and getting the Doberman going again. Or could he? Checking the angle of the sensor once again, he noticed that it was pointed just beyond the steps and slightly beyond his present position. Hmmm, if I slide just a little closer to the wall, I bet I can beat it, he figured. Ooching his hips and then his shoulders inches at a time to his left, Frank was soon dead against the outside wall. He sensed the Doberman’s attention, but so far, so good—no lights and no bark! Frank slowly rose to his knees, then his feet, and gingerly rotated his body counterclockwise until his faced pressed up against the screen of the window next to the door. His right hand stretched down and intuitively tested the door handle. No luck, locked tight and a deadbolt too. Shit. How about the windows? There were three of them, one directly in front and two to the left. Frank’s hand slipped softly into his pocket and slowly removed a small knife. Deftly slipping the extended blade under the screen in front of him, with a gentle pressure upward, he was able to dislodge the screen from its track and slide it down to the floor. He couldn’t see the lock on the double hung window, but a gentle pressure on the bottom pane revealed it to be securely in place. “Fuck,” Frank cursed quietly as he replaced the screen. Edging a couple of feet to his left, he tried the same procedure with the second window, again with no luck.
As he reached the third window, Frank recoiled slightly as a distressing thought entered his mind. What if they have a burglar alarm? He hadn’t even considered that before, but if either of the first two windows perchance had been unlocked, pushing one of them open would have unleashed a hellish cacophony exceeding even the one he had previously experienced. Lights, sirens, dog going insane—all the ingredients of an unmitigated disaster. Well, what now? he wondered, glancing nervously around the rear of the town house.
Frank’s eye soon fixed on a small gray box, barely visible in the darkness and just slightly above the deck, to the left of the last window where he now stood. It couldn’t be more than a couple of feet away, and to him it looked a lot like a telephone interface box. If I cut the line, at least any alarm won’t go to the monitoring station, Frank reasoned to himself. Might as well prevent that, he thought as he deftly severed the incoming phone line with the switchblade. Edging back to the last window, with the knife still out, Frank again pried off the screen and looked carefully at the window. It looked to him like the latch had not quite caught, and if he jarred the window a little, he might be able to raise it. Worst thing that can happen, Frank thought, will be sirens and lights, and then I’m outa here, running like hell for the car and right past that fuckin’ black guard dog, prayin’ to Jesus all the while that the chain is strong enough to hold him! “Piece o’ cake,” he mumbled softly while squinting his eyes shut, bracing himself for the worst, and gently shaking the window.
No lights, no sound, no action—at least not yet. A low-pitched growl emanated from the direction of the Doberman, however, who sounded like he had about reached his limit. One more lunge in my direction and that chain will probably snap for sure, Frank estimated. Then again, if I shake the top pane and jiggle the bottom one at the same time, that lock will probably separate and I’m in, dog or no dog. With no further hesitation, Frank shook the top pane hard while pushing up on the bottom one. He felt the lock slip and the bottom pane rise slightly.
As if on cue, the big black dog began an insane barrage of barking and leaped for the rail. The chain tethered him, his neck snapped back, and he fell to the deck, but not for long. Now in a frenzy, the dog got to his feet, backed a couple of steps, and with every ounce of energy he had, lunged for the rail. This time the chain snapped like a piece of hard peanut brittle, sending the dog over the rail and headfirst into the grass. Barely breaking his stride, he was back on his feet and now racing toward Frank, teeth bared and frothy saliva dripping from his open mouth.
This time, Frank knew he was out of options. With danger this imminent, his reflexes took over, causing him to shove the window up and dive through onto the hardwood floor. The dog was to the steps now and only seconds from the open window. Wincing, Frank rolled over, reached up, and slammed the window shut. Almost instantaneously the dog collided with the closed glass, apparently somewhat stunned as shards of glass flew in every direction. His head was extended through the jagged glass into the interior of the room, but his momentum had definitely abated. A cut on his neck was now visibly bleeding, and a glass fragment in his back paw had replaced the growls with a whimper of pain. He slowly stepped back, extricating his bleeding head and neck from the window, limped a few steps from the window, and apparently decided that he had had enough. With one large shard of glass visibly embedded in his paw, he gingerly backed away from the broken glass, hobbled down the steps, and slowly made his way back home, almost as if he had forgotten why he was there in the first place.
Breathing an immense sigh of relief, Frank collapsed on the floor, too stunned and exhausted to move. For a brief moment before he literally passed out, he gratefully realized for the first time that there was no alarm.
chapter 2
South of Broad, Heading West
Charleston, South Carolina
July 4, 2002
It had been a festive but hot Fourth of July in Charleston, South Carolina. Historic celebrations were always popular in Charleston, and today that had certainly been the case. As the parades, carriage rides, special plantation events, and boat tours started to wind down, everyone began to anticipate the traditional evening fireworks extravaganza launched over the water toward Fort Sumter. At the bandstand in Battery Park (a.k.a. White Point Gardens, named from the myriad of white oyster shells that used to wash up there), the local favorite band, South of Broad, was just finishing their last song as the sun began to set and its golden evening rays filtered through the leaves of the many towering live oaks that filled the park. The historic old streetlamps were flickering on as the last chorus of the band’s catchy reggae version of an old John Denver tune echoed through the park. A crowd of about three hundred locals and tourists had gathered there to hear the group and then view the fireworks display soon to illuminate the bay beyond.
Ryan Christie, the band’s founder and lead guitarist, was a tall sandy-haired slim young man with captivating green eyes and a mesmerizing personality that made him an ideal front man for the group. His rather avant-garde rendition of the 1969 Peter, Paul, and Mary hit was a fabulous remake of the old song, and tonight served as an apropos reminder of the upcoming departure of both Ryan and his lifelong friend Julian Russell—the band’s somewhat-reserved and definitely more traditional bass player. Julian had always been a sort of “straight man” behind Ryan—not quite as physically striking, with his five-foot, nine-inch slightly pudgy frame, and definitely not as loquacious. Nevertheless, he was quite witty himself, although in a more dry, less showy sort of way. Julian was a good sounding board for Ryan’s rather eccentric ideas, and frequently assumed the role of devil’s advocate, in order to shield his friend from his own impulsive behavior and highly unconventional thinking.
As Ryan finished a very funky guitar solo, he winked over at Julian, as if to say, This is it, buddy…our last gig with South of Broad, so let’s leave them a great memory! Julian instinctively knew what Ryan was thinking as the two harmonized masterfully their version of a goodbye to all their fans:
We’re leaving’ in an old van
Don’t know when we’ll be back again
Oh, yes…we hate to go…
Not quite the original lyrics, but aptly chosen as their swan song to Charleston, for tomorrow the boys would be heading west to Portland, Oregon, regrettably in