Storm Prey

to the man’s head as he signed the papers, whining and pleading and peeing himself, and when the papers were in Cappy’s pocket, boom! another one bites the dust. The Mojave was littered with their bones.
    He’d killed them without a flicker of a doubt, without a shred of pity, and enjoyed the nightly reruns ...
     
     
    SOMETIME IN THE early morning, the Minnesota cold got to him, and he stirred in his sleep. Eventually he surfaced, groaned and rolled over, the images of California dying like a match flame in a breeze. He’d kicked off the crappy acrylon blankets, and the winter had snuck through the ill-fitting windows, into the bed. He’d unconsciously pulled himself into a fetal position, and now the muscles of his back and neck cramped up like fists.
    He groaned again and rolled over and straightened out, his back muscles aching, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and listened: too quiet. Probably snowing again. Snow muffled the sounds of the highway, of the neighbors. He caught sight of the alarm clock. Nine o’clock. He’d been asleep since six, after a three-day run on methamphetamine and maybe a little cocaine, and work; they were all mixed up in his mind, and he couldn’t remember.
    He was still tired. Didn’t want to get up, but he swung his feet over the side of the bed, found the pack of Camels, lit one in the dim light that came through the window shade. Sat and smoked it down to his fingers, stubbed it out and trudged to the bathroom, the old cold floorboards flexing under his feet, the room smelling of tobacco and crumbling plaster and peeling wallpaper.
     
     
    THE ONLY bathroom light was a single bulb with a pull string. Cappy pulled on it, and looked at his face in the medicine cabinet mirror. Picked up some new lines, he thought. He was developing a dusty look, with a slash from the corner of his nose down toward his chin. Didn’t bother him; he wasn’t long for this world.
    Today was his birthday, he thought. One more year and he could legally buy a drink.
    He was twenty years old, on this cold winter morning in St. Paul Park.
     
     
    AFTER COMING BACK to Minnesota, he’d stopped in his home-town, looked around. Nothing there for him. He looked so different than he had in junior high, that it wasn’t likely that even his father would recognize him.
    But one guy had. A kid he’d grown up with, named John Loew. Loew had come into the SuperAmerica as Cappy was walking out. Cappy had recognized him, but kept going, and then Loew had stopped and turned and said, “Cap? Is that you?”
    Cap turned and nodded. “How ya doin’, John.”
    “Hey, man ... you really ...”
    Cappy gave him the skeleton grin. “Yeah?”
    “... look different. Like a movie guy or something. Where’ve you been?”
    “You know. LA, San Francisco, West Coast.”
    A woman got out of a Corolla and came walking over and asked, “John?”
    Loew said, “Carol. This is Cap Garner. We grew up together, went to school together.”
    The woman was Cappy’s age, but he could tell she was also about eighteen years younger: a woman that nothing had ever happened to, a little heavy, but not too; a little blond, but not too; a little hot, but not too. She looked at Cappy with utter disdain and said, “Hi, there.”
    Cappy nodded, threw his leg over the BMW, and asked Loew, “So what’re you doing? Working?”
    “Going to Mankato in business administration. Finance.” He shrugged, as if apologizing. “Carol and I are engaged.”
    Cappy pulled his tanker goggles over his eyes and said, “Glad it’s working for you, John.”
    John said, “Yeah, well,” and stepped toward the store. “Anyway...”
    “Have a good day,” Cappy said.
    Riding away, he thought, Isn’t that just how it is? This guy grew up next door, he’s going to college, he’s got a blond chick, he’s gonna get married, he’s gonna have kids, and not a single fuckin’ thing will ever happen to him. Except that he’ll get married and have kids. For some reason, that pissed him off. Some people go to college, some people go to work throwing boxes at UPS.
     
     
    MINNESOTA WAS GRINDING him down. Before the last cold front came through, he’d taken the BMW for a ride down the highway, and in fifteen minutes, even wearing full leathers, fleece and a face mask, he’d been frozen to the bike like a tongue to a water pump.
    He needed to ride, he needed to do something, but he had no money. None. His life couldn’t much be distinguished from