***So far, Miranda Jessup Buckley has been jilted, fired and left to take care of her ex-lover's child.   Finding out that Rita, her friend and co-worker, believes in her innocence makes her feel a little better.  Now, she realizes that the Sheriff has a crush on her.  Things are starting to get better... or so she thinks. ***

 

 

 

The usual rush of people hits at five and doesn't let up until just after six-thirty.  Since I'm busy, the night goes quickly.  There's trash to be taken to the dumpster, the coffee pots need to be washed for the morning.  I have about ten things on a list that I regularly do.  I'm pretty methodical about it.  I know what needs to be done and I do it. 

 

But since all this nonsense started I have to admit I feel a little creeped out being here by myself.  The only people who stop in are underage kids who think I can't count backwards, like Rita.  Or they are truckers who see The Little Eagle Gas and Go's light from the highway and stop in.  

 

Tonight is different.  Tonight it is quiet.  Uncomfortably quiet.  Now, I have two choices.  Either watch the parking lot while my anxiety and paranoia meld together, or do something constructive to pass the last hour.  I opt for the second part.

 

I drag the black mat out to the parking lot and hoist it up.  I shake the heavy rug and turn my face away as a cloud of dirt and dust billow up.  I leave it there, go grab the broom and sweep the floor where it was.  No matter how hard I try, I can't sweep it over the threshold of the front door.  I scavenge the counter and find one of Rita's Cosmopolitan magazines.  I hope she doesn't get mad at me for using it as a dust pan.

 

I open up the magazine to the back cover and squat down to sweep the dirt and debris onto it.  

 

As I'm down there I hear an engine and the sound of it backfiring.  Two headlights are aimed at the store.  The vehicle is stopped at the edge of the parking lot.  They rev the engine.  Another pop sound.  

 

Only this time, the glass in the door crackles.  It sounds like ice splintering.

 

"What the hell?" I whisper.  When I look up I see the lights getting closer.  Another pop and the glass in the door explodes, showering down on me.

 

I scramble towards the door, pushing the broomstick through the handle.   I saw it on a movie once.  Even if the glass is gone in one of the doors, this might slow them down.  And sometimes survival comes down to seconds.

 

I run like hell to the back office and hit the lights.  The store plunges into darkness.  The cameras show only the tail lights of the retreating shooter.

 

Shakily, I pick up the phone and dial 911.  

 

"911.  What's your emergency?"

 

"Someone just shot at me.  I think they're gone."

 

"Are you hurt?"

 

"There's glass all over me.  The, uh, door exploded.  It's in my hair." I reach up and touch the pellets of glass that are on my scalp.

 

"What's your name, ma'am?"

 

"It's  Miranda."

 

"What's your address?"

 

"I'm at The Little Eagle Gas and Go.  The one on Route seventeen."

 

"Were you shot?"

 

"No."

 

"Can you see the shooter?"

 

I scan the camera monitors.  The parking lot is empty.  "No.  He left."

 

"Did you get a look at him?"

 

"No.  I just told you.  Can you just send someone? I'm freaking out.  I don't want to be here alone in case they come back."

 

"Sheriff's department is en route.  They should be there in about seven minutes."

 

"I'm scared."

 

"I'm going to stay on the line with you until they get there.  You're doing fine.  Just stay where you are."

 

I nod. " I'm not going anywhere."

 

Flashing lights appear on the monitor.  A uniformed Deputy gets out and aims his flashlight into the store.

 

"They're here.  I can see them on the monitor.  The cops are here." I tell the operator.  "Can I hang up?"

 

"Yes, Miranda.  You're gonna be fine now.  You did good."

 

For a moment, I'm a little girl basking in the praise of a beloved teacher.  "Thank you.  You weren't too shabby yourself."

 

Her professional golden laughter fills the phone.

 

I place the receiver back on the cradle and slowly open the door.

 

"Hello?" I call out.  "I'm going to turn the lights on, okay?"

 

"Please," he says.

 

I reach over and flip the three switches.  The overhead lights and satellite radio switch on.

 

"I'm Deputy Tyler Douglas, I'm here to," he says.

 

I look past him.  "Where's Mitch?"

 

"Mitch who?"

 

"The Sheriff.  Where is he?"

 

"He's off duty.  I'm here, though."

 

"Call him."

 

"Ma'am, I promise you I'm quite capable of taking your statement."

 

"He told me to call him anytime I needed him.  Please, Deputy Tyler Douglas, call him."

 

The look on his face is not what I'd call a happy one.  It was one of someone who would rather be sitting behind the wheel of his cruiser playing video games on his phone.  "Yes, ma'am."

 

He walks back to his cruiser and radios into station.  I see him making these little circles with his finger beside his temple. 

 

Sweetheart, I think, crazy doesn't begin to cover me today.  And, as capable as Deputy Douglas appears, I need Mitch.  He knows what's going on.  To Deputy Douglas, this is a random act of violence.  Mitch will understand, as I do, this was a warning.

 

He comes back inside and smiles at me.  It's the smile someone gets when trying to placate.  It goes no further than his face.  "He's on his way."

 

"Thank you, Deputy.  I'm sure you're very good."

 

He nods, lips pursed together.

 

"It's just he knows the score."

 

"The score?"

 

"Do people say that anymore?"

 

"Not really.  My mom and dad do, but they're, uh." He stops, frantically searching for a nice way to say old.

 

"What are you? Sixteen?"

 

"Twenty-five, ma'am."

 

I sigh.  I used to babysit when I was younger.  The name Douglas is ringing bells.  "I used to babysit some Douglases.  Caroline and Henry?"

 

He smiles.  "No shit," he says. "That's my older sister and brother."

 

"I don't remember you."

 

"My mom calls me her late in life baby."

 

I pinch the bridge of my nose.  The only thing that makes this less uncomfortable is the fact that I never changed Deputy Tyler Douglas's diaper.

 

 

To be continued ...