Eric Guneagle
Pirate Master
Hello, mates. It has been much time since my last story. Half-a-year ago, I created a story for school. Though this project is long-past, I want to share this story with you. It is not a piratey story, but it's good to have a change once in a while, wouldn't you agree? If not, please cry somewhere else, because it's time for a good story.
I opened my eyes suddenly, my head full of pain and regrets. That one man in Reno, who had tortured our family for years; was taken down. Shot. By a man with vengeance as his only friend. That man; sleeping in his cell in the Folsom Prison, living the rest of his life like a caged animal. All because of that heartless murderer who ruined his life and crushed his dreams. And that one person who took hold of his hate and ended his life. That person; Is me.
Day after day, I could not contain my anger. After murdering my eldest son, there was a dark hole in the center of my heart. I pleaded with the police to find who was responsible. The man who committed this crime was very good at covering his tracks. The police has given up after a week. I was the only person who knew the face of the murderer. I searched his records, tracked him, and did everything in my power to find him.
This manhunt went on for about four years. There were a countless number of times where I had begun to lose hope. My wife pleaded with me, day in and day out, to stop what I was doing and move on with the rest of our lives. I did not listen to her, and that is what I regret the most. After she gave up on me and settled a divorce, I had only one thing left in my life; and that was my vengeance. My only purpose of living in this horrible world. And it took four long, dreadful years to finally jump onto that train in Reno and shoot that man. After all of that time, my life was finally complete. My last drive in life was gone; and I was ready to leave this world, as well. But before I could do anything, the police found me and hauled me away in chains.
So here I lay, in the Folsom Prison in Reno, Nevada. It is much harder to escape the world with your hands chained behind your back. This is a maximum security prison, you are cuffed at all times. I am nothing, but a puppet; and these people can do anything they want with me.
It has been a long three years since that day my vengeance came true. Since that time, I have been locked away in here. I lay in my bed every night, and have brutal nightmares. Each day, the nightmares get worse. I lay in my hard bed every day and stare out that small, barred window. I watch the train roll down the tracks, and hear the whistle fade out along with my dreams as it passes by. My greatest wish is to be like that train; riding freely, far away from this prison. I would give anything to go back and fix my wrong actions; to go back to when it all started. Seven years ago, today...
It was a week after the murderer, John Steadman, broke into our home and shot my son. I arrived at my blue and white house after a long day of work. I park my white van in the narrow driveway. I step out of the van and slam the door shut behind me. As I take a sip of my coffee, I walk into my house in misery, taking one slow step after another. I ignore the calls of my wife and walk right past her. I slump into our soft, brown leather couch. I stare into the blank television screen, glaring at my reflection. How could I let this happen? I snap out of my lifeless trance as I see the figure of my short, brown-haired wife tower over me. I look away, in shame.
“Eleven,” I mutter quietly.
“What do you mean?” my wife questioned.
“Robert was eleven years old. What kind of sick, heartless person would kill an innocent child?”
“Honey...” she started.
“Sarah, our son was murdered. I will never forgive the man who did this.” My eyes began to water. I took the back of my hand and wiped my eyes.
“Alex... I hate to see you like this. But there is nothing we can do but pray,” she assured me. Her green eyes were staring into my soul. I looked away.
“No. I have made a decision. I am not going to rest until I have found that man.” My wife looked at me with hopeless eyes. She sighed, and I knew she felt pity for me.
“Please, don’t do this, Alex,” she pleaded. I looked up at her, feeling shameful. “I love you...” But I just got up and walked right by her. I did not know what to say. I could feel her eyes at the back of my head as I walked outside and into my van. I looked ahead and saw her beautiful face staring out to me from the window. I took a quick sip of my coffee, looked at her, then turned the old, rusty key in the ignition.
I rolled into the station and parked my car. I stepped out and slammed my empty coffee cup on the ground as I walked into the station and through the gray double doors at the front. I walked up to the lady at the front desk. She was African American with short, black hair. She wore a formal blue outfit and looked like she had put on the entire stick of cherry lipstick. I faintly smiled at her.
“Hello, Alex,” she addressed. She gave me a friendly smile.
“Hi, um. I’m looking for Chief Morris, is he around?”
“Yes, he should be coming out of a meeting right about now. He’s in his office.”
“Thank you.” I nodded at her and walked up a couple of flights of stairs and into a long, narrow hallway. The hallway was crawling with people. I knocked on Chief Morris’ office door and let myself in quietly. I stepped inside the giant office. Morris was sitting at his desk, looking through some files. He looked up at me and put the files down. He has dark brown, messy hair with a shaved beard, accompanied by an unshaved mustache. He had a very tab body and his chief badge shined proudly on his blue uniform. By his look, you could estimate that he is around the age of 45.
“I am very busy at the moment, but please sit down if you would like to talk,” he instructed. I sat down in the wooden chair across from him. He swung his leather wheeled chair around and grabbed a stapler, then swung back around. He continued to work.
“I actually have a request, sir,” I started. I waited for a response, but he just looked up at me, then looked back down. I knew he was waiting for me, so I continued. “As you know, my son was murdered one week ago. I feel we need to look into this.”
“You know we have done everything in our power, Alex. The man has been thought to have fled the United States by now, out of our jurisdiction.”
“Well, if you won’t do anything, then I will,” I warned.
“You know you can’t make any actions without the board’s permission. Do I need to explain the rules to you?” He filed through some papers on his desk and pulled out a big, blue book that had the words “California Officers’ Manual” printed on it and passed it to me. I snatched it out of his hands and threw it out of the giant glass window behind him. A cool breeze filled the large room, as if trying to cool off the tensity in the room from us glaring at each other angrily. A loud car alarm from outside broke the silence a few seconds later.
“Whether you like it or not, I’m avenging his death,” I declared. I had no regrets. I stood up from the uncomfortable, wooden chair and started walking across the room to the door leading out of his giant office.
“Turn in your badge on the way out, please.” I ignored him and stepped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me. I descended the stairs pass the narrow hallway and stormed out of the building. I walked over to my car, and the sound of the car alarm grew louder. I take a turn and finally spot my car, the front window smashed. I start cursing loudly as I run over to the front of my car. People glare at me from across the parking lot. I study my windshield, and I see something square and blue in the middle of the impact. I reach my hand in, feeling glass scathe my skin. I pull out of big, blue book. I throw it as far as I can across the parking lot and sit down on the curb, my hands against my forehead. I stand up quickly and open my car door. I brush the glass off of my leather seat and sit down. I try to glance pass the cracks in the windshield and see the road ahead of me, but I find it very difficult.
Minutes later, I arrive back at my beautiful home in Los Angeles, California. I storm into my house and see my wife. She is sitting down on the couch, watching the news. In her arms is our four-month-old son, Anthony. I look at her, feeling disgusted with myself. This time, she gives me the silent treatment and pays no attention to me. I walk into the living room and sit on the couch on the other side of the room. I stare at the light-blue wallpaper on the wall, then look at the clock. 6:43, it read. I then took the laptop off of the small, round table next to me, click on the switch on the lamp, and open my laptop. I am about to open Internet Explorer, but I stop in my tracks when I see my desktop background, a picture of me, my wife, and our two sons. This picture was taken two days before the shooting of my son. I cannot take my eyes off of it. I yearn for the past, and the past only; for everything to be normal again, like it used to be. I set the laptop back down on the table and stand up. I decide that it is time to take action.
I kick open the door leading to the outside world and run to my police vehicle. I pop open the trunk and take out some powder and a duster. I then start dusting my house for fingerprints; the walkway, the floors, everywhere that was part of the crime scene. Sadly, I could find no evidence. That is; until I dropped all of my supplies on the floor. The powder spilled all over my gun. I dusted it, then noticed prints that were not mine. Then I studied the gun very closely... This was my gun! But that could not be right. I had my gun with me all day and left it at the station!
I was puzzled, set into a trance. I broke out of my long trance when I heard a knock at our front door. I ran over to our big, white door and I turned the silver knob. Some faces I recognized were standing in front of me. There were three men in police uniforms, carrying guns and shackles in their hands. They barge into the kitchen.
“Alex, we have looked into your case further, per your request. It would seem that new evidence has come to life, and we now know exactly who the murderer was,” Chief Morris told me. My face lit up, with excitement and happiness.
“Really? That’s great news!” I exclaimed. Finally; at long last, there was a bright light at the end of this long, dark tunnel called life.
“On the contrary, it’s not-so-great news.” Morris stared at me with cold, hard eyes. I knew something was amiss. I backed up a couple of steps, closer to the living room.
“What do you mean?” I shivered at the thought of what he could mean by that statement.
“You dropped your gun on the floor when you left my office earlier. We examined the fun and found your prints on it.” He paused and waited for my response, so I followed along.
“Yes, it’s my gun. Of course it has my prints on it,” I snapped.
“Thanks for being honest, Alex. You were a good officer.” He looked at the two officers behind him. “Take him into custody.” The two policemen started stepping toward me. I backed away slowly into the living room. I was in utter shock. My wife went to the supermarket about ten minutes ago, so I was all alone with men pointing guns at me.
“Wait, what?”
“Your gun matches the murder weapon used to kill your son. This is a rare type of gun, only officers can possess,” Morris explained. I looked back and forth between Morris and the two men stepping toward me. I hastily turned my head back and forth as I continued to back away into the living room.
“Resist and we won’t hesitate to shoot,” Morris warned. But I ignored his warning and started running. Toward the window.
I jumped out of the closed window in the living room, shattered glass falling all over me. I ignored the pain of the glass scraping my skin. I heard gunshots nearby, which made me panic even more. One of the shots ricocheted off of the trash can next to me as I was running. I was right near my small, white fence across the yard when a shot whooshed right past my right ear. I then jumped over the fence. I had no clue where I was going, but I just followed my feet as they kept running without my consent. I hear sirens about a mile away. I ducked behind a large hedge in someone’s yard, about a block away from my house. I made the holy cross on my chest, then grasped my hands together and prayed. I did not kill my own son; but now I know who did.
Nine days ago, two days before the murder of my son, I was in a secret warehouse in San Diego. A man was there who was a former agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had some special guns that I was sent to test and retrieve for the force. I tested every gun he had in his inventory. One of them must had been the murder weapon. That gun must had been planted in Morris’ office after I left, with my fingerprints on it! That was about forty-five minutes ago, meaning that he must still be in the area! John Steadman; the man I must kill. An eye for an eye, a life for a life. I am going to write a new chapter in this story; and the story shall be written in blood. Whether it is my blood or Steadman’s, it makes no difference to me.
A siren suddenly whooshed right pass me. I heard the vicious barking of hounds passing by along with the siren. I knew they were about to release the tracking dogs, so I came to the conclusion that I had to keep moving. I ran to a nearby telephone booth. There was a short, skinny man in there. I opened the door and pushed him out, to the ground. I took the phonebook and stumbled out of the booth. The man gave me the finger as I ran down the street. Suddenly, my wife pulled up next to me in my white van. I jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut behind me. I stared at my wife, horrified.
“What’s going on?!” she questioned, possibly more in shock than I was.
“Drive! Go anywhere that’s safe! Make sure no one can find us!” I exclaimed. I was losing my mind.
“Okay, okay! Calm down!” my wife scolded me. She panicked even more than me, then drove down the street very fast. Anthony cried in the backseat.
“Slow down! If the cops pull us over, it’s all over!” She listened to me and slowed down. But only to a few miles-per-hour above the speed limit.
“Honey, I’m a fugitive. I was framed for Robert’s murder!”
“What?!” she exclaimed. “You’re a good, long-serving officer! They should know it’s not you! Especially since it’s your son!” She pulled over into the parking lot of an old warehouse. Our van was parked behind a giant bush, hidden. We jumped out of the car and my wife took Anthony and our laptop into the warehouse with us. The door is always unlocked, so we stepping right in.
“Search John Steadman on the laptop. I’ll look for his name in this phonebook,” I instructed.
“darn it, I have no internet service!” she exclaimed. I kept flipping through the yellow pages of the Yellow Pages. I found nothing, whatsoever.
“Nothing at all,” I declared, feeling more hopeless than I ever had before. I suddenly heard dogs barking in the distance. I stood up and hit the laptop with all of the force in the ball of my right foot. The laptop screen shattered into tiny pieces and the laptop body became slightly disfigured.
“What are you doing?!” she scolded me.
“All of my important files are on there. We can’t let anyone know anything,” I explained.
As I was about to pick up the broken laptop and dispose of it, the giant warehouse door cracked open. An officer with a dog on a leash stepped in.
“Hey, what are you doing in here? This is a restricted area,” he asked me suspiciously. I was about to grab my gun and my badge, but I realized that I left everything back at my house. I had to play it like a normal civilian.
“Oh, sorry. We didn’t know,” I started. “We just like to come here because this is where we-”
“Err, I don’t want to know. Names, please?”
“John Steadman,” I answered quickly. I realized he was just a security guard.
“One moment, please,” the guard told us. He eyed me, then walked away with his dog. Me, my wife, and Anthony stayed quiet until he returned a minute later, without his dog.
“Are you John and Sally Steadman from Reno, Nevada?” he asked. I then thought for a moment. I remember John saying something about Reno back in the warehouse, so I thought I had the right person. I reached for the officer’s gun and shot him in the chest. He screamed in agony. I knew someone would hear the scream and call for the police, so we quickly ran to our van. We quickly drove off, onto the highway. I felt a sharp pain in my head. I was not the type to murder innocent people. Possibly, saying my name was that of a murderer may have given me his personality, as well. I jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Looks like we’re headin’ to Reno,” I said as I turned the key in the ignition and grabbed onto the steering wheel.
And that is how the story began. I tracked John in Reno, searched his records, and did everything I could to find him. The entire time, my wife was always at my side. I knew she was tired of being on the run, but she was always with me, every step of the way. I just feel ashamed that I did not do the same for her. I neglected her, yelled at her, and used her. It took her two years for her to finally leave me. She said that I cared more about our long-gone son than her and the beautiful child we had at the time being, so she settled a divorce. To this day, I am completely unaware of what happened to her. She could be in prison, or even dead; because they know she was on the run with me. I was fighting this war alone. I lost all sense of hope, and nearly killed myself many times.
I opened my eyes suddenly, my head full of pain and regrets. That one man in Reno, who had tortured our family for years; was taken down. Shot. By a man with vengeance as his only friend. That man; sleeping in his cell in the Folsom Prison, living the rest of his life like a caged animal. All because of that heartless murderer who ruined his life and crushed his dreams. And that one person who took hold of his hate and ended his life. That person; Is me.
Day after day, I could not contain my anger. After murdering my eldest son, there was a dark hole in the center of my heart. I pleaded with the police to find who was responsible. The man who committed this crime was very good at covering his tracks. The police has given up after a week. I was the only person who knew the face of the murderer. I searched his records, tracked him, and did everything in my power to find him.
This manhunt went on for about four years. There were a countless number of times where I had begun to lose hope. My wife pleaded with me, day in and day out, to stop what I was doing and move on with the rest of our lives. I did not listen to her, and that is what I regret the most. After she gave up on me and settled a divorce, I had only one thing left in my life; and that was my vengeance. My only purpose of living in this horrible world. And it took four long, dreadful years to finally jump onto that train in Reno and shoot that man. After all of that time, my life was finally complete. My last drive in life was gone; and I was ready to leave this world, as well. But before I could do anything, the police found me and hauled me away in chains.
So here I lay, in the Folsom Prison in Reno, Nevada. It is much harder to escape the world with your hands chained behind your back. This is a maximum security prison, you are cuffed at all times. I am nothing, but a puppet; and these people can do anything they want with me.
It has been a long three years since that day my vengeance came true. Since that time, I have been locked away in here. I lay in my bed every night, and have brutal nightmares. Each day, the nightmares get worse. I lay in my hard bed every day and stare out that small, barred window. I watch the train roll down the tracks, and hear the whistle fade out along with my dreams as it passes by. My greatest wish is to be like that train; riding freely, far away from this prison. I would give anything to go back and fix my wrong actions; to go back to when it all started. Seven years ago, today...
It was a week after the murderer, John Steadman, broke into our home and shot my son. I arrived at my blue and white house after a long day of work. I park my white van in the narrow driveway. I step out of the van and slam the door shut behind me. As I take a sip of my coffee, I walk into my house in misery, taking one slow step after another. I ignore the calls of my wife and walk right past her. I slump into our soft, brown leather couch. I stare into the blank television screen, glaring at my reflection. How could I let this happen? I snap out of my lifeless trance as I see the figure of my short, brown-haired wife tower over me. I look away, in shame.
“Eleven,” I mutter quietly.
“What do you mean?” my wife questioned.
“Robert was eleven years old. What kind of sick, heartless person would kill an innocent child?”
“Honey...” she started.
“Sarah, our son was murdered. I will never forgive the man who did this.” My eyes began to water. I took the back of my hand and wiped my eyes.
“Alex... I hate to see you like this. But there is nothing we can do but pray,” she assured me. Her green eyes were staring into my soul. I looked away.
“No. I have made a decision. I am not going to rest until I have found that man.” My wife looked at me with hopeless eyes. She sighed, and I knew she felt pity for me.
“Please, don’t do this, Alex,” she pleaded. I looked up at her, feeling shameful. “I love you...” But I just got up and walked right by her. I did not know what to say. I could feel her eyes at the back of my head as I walked outside and into my van. I looked ahead and saw her beautiful face staring out to me from the window. I took a quick sip of my coffee, looked at her, then turned the old, rusty key in the ignition.
I rolled into the station and parked my car. I stepped out and slammed my empty coffee cup on the ground as I walked into the station and through the gray double doors at the front. I walked up to the lady at the front desk. She was African American with short, black hair. She wore a formal blue outfit and looked like she had put on the entire stick of cherry lipstick. I faintly smiled at her.
“Hello, Alex,” she addressed. She gave me a friendly smile.
“Hi, um. I’m looking for Chief Morris, is he around?”
“Yes, he should be coming out of a meeting right about now. He’s in his office.”
“Thank you.” I nodded at her and walked up a couple of flights of stairs and into a long, narrow hallway. The hallway was crawling with people. I knocked on Chief Morris’ office door and let myself in quietly. I stepped inside the giant office. Morris was sitting at his desk, looking through some files. He looked up at me and put the files down. He has dark brown, messy hair with a shaved beard, accompanied by an unshaved mustache. He had a very tab body and his chief badge shined proudly on his blue uniform. By his look, you could estimate that he is around the age of 45.
“I am very busy at the moment, but please sit down if you would like to talk,” he instructed. I sat down in the wooden chair across from him. He swung his leather wheeled chair around and grabbed a stapler, then swung back around. He continued to work.
“I actually have a request, sir,” I started. I waited for a response, but he just looked up at me, then looked back down. I knew he was waiting for me, so I continued. “As you know, my son was murdered one week ago. I feel we need to look into this.”
“You know we have done everything in our power, Alex. The man has been thought to have fled the United States by now, out of our jurisdiction.”
“Well, if you won’t do anything, then I will,” I warned.
“You know you can’t make any actions without the board’s permission. Do I need to explain the rules to you?” He filed through some papers on his desk and pulled out a big, blue book that had the words “California Officers’ Manual” printed on it and passed it to me. I snatched it out of his hands and threw it out of the giant glass window behind him. A cool breeze filled the large room, as if trying to cool off the tensity in the room from us glaring at each other angrily. A loud car alarm from outside broke the silence a few seconds later.
“Whether you like it or not, I’m avenging his death,” I declared. I had no regrets. I stood up from the uncomfortable, wooden chair and started walking across the room to the door leading out of his giant office.
“Turn in your badge on the way out, please.” I ignored him and stepped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me. I descended the stairs pass the narrow hallway and stormed out of the building. I walked over to my car, and the sound of the car alarm grew louder. I take a turn and finally spot my car, the front window smashed. I start cursing loudly as I run over to the front of my car. People glare at me from across the parking lot. I study my windshield, and I see something square and blue in the middle of the impact. I reach my hand in, feeling glass scathe my skin. I pull out of big, blue book. I throw it as far as I can across the parking lot and sit down on the curb, my hands against my forehead. I stand up quickly and open my car door. I brush the glass off of my leather seat and sit down. I try to glance pass the cracks in the windshield and see the road ahead of me, but I find it very difficult.
Minutes later, I arrive back at my beautiful home in Los Angeles, California. I storm into my house and see my wife. She is sitting down on the couch, watching the news. In her arms is our four-month-old son, Anthony. I look at her, feeling disgusted with myself. This time, she gives me the silent treatment and pays no attention to me. I walk into the living room and sit on the couch on the other side of the room. I stare at the light-blue wallpaper on the wall, then look at the clock. 6:43, it read. I then took the laptop off of the small, round table next to me, click on the switch on the lamp, and open my laptop. I am about to open Internet Explorer, but I stop in my tracks when I see my desktop background, a picture of me, my wife, and our two sons. This picture was taken two days before the shooting of my son. I cannot take my eyes off of it. I yearn for the past, and the past only; for everything to be normal again, like it used to be. I set the laptop back down on the table and stand up. I decide that it is time to take action.
I kick open the door leading to the outside world and run to my police vehicle. I pop open the trunk and take out some powder and a duster. I then start dusting my house for fingerprints; the walkway, the floors, everywhere that was part of the crime scene. Sadly, I could find no evidence. That is; until I dropped all of my supplies on the floor. The powder spilled all over my gun. I dusted it, then noticed prints that were not mine. Then I studied the gun very closely... This was my gun! But that could not be right. I had my gun with me all day and left it at the station!
I was puzzled, set into a trance. I broke out of my long trance when I heard a knock at our front door. I ran over to our big, white door and I turned the silver knob. Some faces I recognized were standing in front of me. There were three men in police uniforms, carrying guns and shackles in their hands. They barge into the kitchen.
“Alex, we have looked into your case further, per your request. It would seem that new evidence has come to life, and we now know exactly who the murderer was,” Chief Morris told me. My face lit up, with excitement and happiness.
“Really? That’s great news!” I exclaimed. Finally; at long last, there was a bright light at the end of this long, dark tunnel called life.
“On the contrary, it’s not-so-great news.” Morris stared at me with cold, hard eyes. I knew something was amiss. I backed up a couple of steps, closer to the living room.
“What do you mean?” I shivered at the thought of what he could mean by that statement.
“You dropped your gun on the floor when you left my office earlier. We examined the fun and found your prints on it.” He paused and waited for my response, so I followed along.
“Yes, it’s my gun. Of course it has my prints on it,” I snapped.
“Thanks for being honest, Alex. You were a good officer.” He looked at the two officers behind him. “Take him into custody.” The two policemen started stepping toward me. I backed away slowly into the living room. I was in utter shock. My wife went to the supermarket about ten minutes ago, so I was all alone with men pointing guns at me.
“Wait, what?”
“Your gun matches the murder weapon used to kill your son. This is a rare type of gun, only officers can possess,” Morris explained. I looked back and forth between Morris and the two men stepping toward me. I hastily turned my head back and forth as I continued to back away into the living room.
“Resist and we won’t hesitate to shoot,” Morris warned. But I ignored his warning and started running. Toward the window.
I jumped out of the closed window in the living room, shattered glass falling all over me. I ignored the pain of the glass scraping my skin. I heard gunshots nearby, which made me panic even more. One of the shots ricocheted off of the trash can next to me as I was running. I was right near my small, white fence across the yard when a shot whooshed right past my right ear. I then jumped over the fence. I had no clue where I was going, but I just followed my feet as they kept running without my consent. I hear sirens about a mile away. I ducked behind a large hedge in someone’s yard, about a block away from my house. I made the holy cross on my chest, then grasped my hands together and prayed. I did not kill my own son; but now I know who did.
Nine days ago, two days before the murder of my son, I was in a secret warehouse in San Diego. A man was there who was a former agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had some special guns that I was sent to test and retrieve for the force. I tested every gun he had in his inventory. One of them must had been the murder weapon. That gun must had been planted in Morris’ office after I left, with my fingerprints on it! That was about forty-five minutes ago, meaning that he must still be in the area! John Steadman; the man I must kill. An eye for an eye, a life for a life. I am going to write a new chapter in this story; and the story shall be written in blood. Whether it is my blood or Steadman’s, it makes no difference to me.
A siren suddenly whooshed right pass me. I heard the vicious barking of hounds passing by along with the siren. I knew they were about to release the tracking dogs, so I came to the conclusion that I had to keep moving. I ran to a nearby telephone booth. There was a short, skinny man in there. I opened the door and pushed him out, to the ground. I took the phonebook and stumbled out of the booth. The man gave me the finger as I ran down the street. Suddenly, my wife pulled up next to me in my white van. I jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut behind me. I stared at my wife, horrified.
“What’s going on?!” she questioned, possibly more in shock than I was.
“Drive! Go anywhere that’s safe! Make sure no one can find us!” I exclaimed. I was losing my mind.
“Okay, okay! Calm down!” my wife scolded me. She panicked even more than me, then drove down the street very fast. Anthony cried in the backseat.
“Slow down! If the cops pull us over, it’s all over!” She listened to me and slowed down. But only to a few miles-per-hour above the speed limit.
“Honey, I’m a fugitive. I was framed for Robert’s murder!”
“What?!” she exclaimed. “You’re a good, long-serving officer! They should know it’s not you! Especially since it’s your son!” She pulled over into the parking lot of an old warehouse. Our van was parked behind a giant bush, hidden. We jumped out of the car and my wife took Anthony and our laptop into the warehouse with us. The door is always unlocked, so we stepping right in.
“Search John Steadman on the laptop. I’ll look for his name in this phonebook,” I instructed.
“darn it, I have no internet service!” she exclaimed. I kept flipping through the yellow pages of the Yellow Pages. I found nothing, whatsoever.
“Nothing at all,” I declared, feeling more hopeless than I ever had before. I suddenly heard dogs barking in the distance. I stood up and hit the laptop with all of the force in the ball of my right foot. The laptop screen shattered into tiny pieces and the laptop body became slightly disfigured.
“What are you doing?!” she scolded me.
“All of my important files are on there. We can’t let anyone know anything,” I explained.
As I was about to pick up the broken laptop and dispose of it, the giant warehouse door cracked open. An officer with a dog on a leash stepped in.
“Hey, what are you doing in here? This is a restricted area,” he asked me suspiciously. I was about to grab my gun and my badge, but I realized that I left everything back at my house. I had to play it like a normal civilian.
“Oh, sorry. We didn’t know,” I started. “We just like to come here because this is where we-”
“Err, I don’t want to know. Names, please?”
“John Steadman,” I answered quickly. I realized he was just a security guard.
“One moment, please,” the guard told us. He eyed me, then walked away with his dog. Me, my wife, and Anthony stayed quiet until he returned a minute later, without his dog.
“Are you John and Sally Steadman from Reno, Nevada?” he asked. I then thought for a moment. I remember John saying something about Reno back in the warehouse, so I thought I had the right person. I reached for the officer’s gun and shot him in the chest. He screamed in agony. I knew someone would hear the scream and call for the police, so we quickly ran to our van. We quickly drove off, onto the highway. I felt a sharp pain in my head. I was not the type to murder innocent people. Possibly, saying my name was that of a murderer may have given me his personality, as well. I jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Looks like we’re headin’ to Reno,” I said as I turned the key in the ignition and grabbed onto the steering wheel.
And that is how the story began. I tracked John in Reno, searched his records, and did everything I could to find him. The entire time, my wife was always at my side. I knew she was tired of being on the run, but she was always with me, every step of the way. I just feel ashamed that I did not do the same for her. I neglected her, yelled at her, and used her. It took her two years for her to finally leave me. She said that I cared more about our long-gone son than her and the beautiful child we had at the time being, so she settled a divorce. To this day, I am completely unaware of what happened to her. She could be in prison, or even dead; because they know she was on the run with me. I was fighting this war alone. I lost all sense of hope, and nearly killed myself many times.
