Fateful Night

He banged a hand against the concrete, his anger reaching the boiling point, stirring up thoughts of revenge.    

If I see him again, I’ll kill him. 

As those words resonated in his 13-year-old head, the fear of the unknown seized him, shoving his body onto the tracks and his legs into action.  His feet hammered the concrete as he sprinted toward Blue Vista.  When he reached the bend, he jumped to the right and tumbled onto land, rolled and was on his feet again, running, dodging trees, using both hands to toss aside limbs as they smacked his arms and face.  He stumbled and fell once but that didn’t deter his effort.  Seconds later he came to an abrupt halt, the driveway just ten feet away.

Standing perfectly still, he listened as his eyes searched.  The Ford was gone.  Only the spewing of water from the fountain in the center of the circular driveway provided anything above a whispering of the leaves.  Slowly, he stepped forward, turned to the right and focused on the open front door.  He didn’t want to look at the bodies.  But he did.  His stomach was in his throat.  A deep breath soothed the sickening feeling, but not much.  Maneuvering around the bodies, he carefully avoided stepping into the dark blood that had pooled on the stoop.  He glanced over a shoulder.  All was clear.  He stepped inside. 

The living room lights were still glowing and the television was spitting static.  Otherwise, it was quiet.  He bolted up the stairs to the second floor and hurried down the hall to the rear, a night light shooting his shadow along the walls and the carpet.  The door to the back bedroom was cracked.  He shoved it gently and stuck his head inside.  Aimee Winslow was snuggled under a sheet hugging a stuffed bear.  From where he stood, he could see her stomach rising and falling.  She was asleep.  He turned and walked back down the hall.  He sat down on the top step.  What should he do?  He shook his head.  He didn’t know what to do.  Aimee was 10, the Winslow’s only child.  She’d been there on Saturdays for the big league games.  She’d often sat beside him on the couch and asked questions about baseball.  She was nice, just like her mom and dad.  The tears came again, streaked his cheeks.  He glanced back toward her room, wiped his face with both hands then walked down the steps.

When he made it to the front stoop, he heard sirens . . . becoming louder by the second.  He bolted, not down the driveway but instead through the woods.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a police car speeding toward the house followed by two other squad cars.  He ran a few more yards then stopped and hid behind a tree, close enough for him to see what was happening.  The units, one behind the other, skidded to a stop.  Doors flew open and six officers poured from the cars and approached the front stoop.  For the first time in hours, a smile found its way to his mouth.  Aimee will be safe now. 

Twenty minutes later he crawled through his bedroom window.  He had no idea who had summoned the police or why they’d been called.  His mom was sound asleep, as she often was when he arrived home.  His dad was at the Wonder Bread factory, baking loaves for morning delivery.  He flipped the switch on the wall near the door and a single overhead bulb responded.

Quietly, he rummaged through his two-drawer desk until he found some notebook paper.  He placed a sheet on the desktop, picked up a No. 2 pencil and carefully sketched a picture of the killer’s face.  The head shape, eyes, ears, lips, and even the dimples were ingrained in his mind.  He liked to draw and was good at it, the pencil providing shading, depth, and single lines.  Art was a natural product of his genetic pool.  Everyone on his mom’s side could draw.  His grandfather had made a living as a freelance caricature artist, poking fun at politicians for several papers in Virginia.  There was no caricature to Chip’s drawing.  He stared at it for a few minutes then fiddled with additional shading around the nose.  It was a dead-on rendering. 

He carefully folded the sheet into a smaller shape then stuck the drawing between the pages of a program from the Cardinals’ exhibition game against the Red Sox at Moore’s Field.  Ted Williams and Sta