The Catalyst

by Michael Long

It was raining like cats and dogs bouncing on a corrugated tin roof the night he drove into town. The streets were empty, yet he could feel the eyes of people peeking out through their shuttered windows. Small towns were all the same, apprehensive of strangers and fearful of the unknown or worse, the known.

Yes, they knew him all right. They knew why he left town ten years ago, and why he had returned. They both longed for and dreaded this moment and what it would bring. Judgment Day for some; redemption for others. But which side would come out on top? That was the question in everyone's hearts and minds.

The whole town was a cauldron of secrets and closeted skeletons, awaiting strings to make them dance like some macabre marionette show. He knew all their dirty laundry, and his return was just the catalyst to make the bones come to life.

He drove into the empty parking lot of the local Motel 6. The neon vacancy sign still blinked in disrepair. He got out of his 1964 Lincoln convertible with suicide doors and pulled his black leather trench coat around his now bulkier 5'6" frame. With his black leather slouch hat already dripping from the downpour, he walked briskly into the lobby and rang the service bell summoning the night help.

“ROOM,” he said in a gravelly voice that would've sounded like a Black Rider to a cowering hobbit.

“Cash or credit?” The clerk barely managed to ask without stuttering timidly.

“Credit,” he replied, slapping down his Visa Platinum. “You're new here.”

“Yes sir, just started last month. Here's room 28. Anything else?” He was trying not to show how nervous this man made him feel.

“Yes, call your boss and tell him ‘the Devil is here.’”

“I don't understand, sir?”

“He will. Good night.”

He looked at his watch. Midnight. eight hours before all hell broke loose. He'd be ready for it; he was the start of it.

The town would be divided like 2 sides of the gym class choosing members for their football teams with him smack in the middle. He felt like Bruce Willis in “Last Man Standing.” Blood would flow like wine on both sides. Time to settle old accounts, and his brother, the Sheriff, was first on the list.

The hotel owner and manager was his closest and oldest friend, probably his only real friend, and knew the whole story. It was as old as Cain and Abel, two brothers torn apart over a woman. Even if she was a former Miss America, she might as well have been Lillith where these two were concerned, because she was definitely poison in its most potent form.

He went to his room, took out is two Glock 9 mils, and begin cleaning them. He was almost done when his phone rang.

“Hello old friend, message received and understood. See you at Mom’s for breakfast?”

“8:30?”

“Good enough, night.”

He looked at his watch. 12:30 a.m.–seven and a half hours to go. Best to get some shuteye he thought to himself.

He finished cleaning his guns and flopped onto the king-size bed. The phone rang again.

“Hello, want some company?”

“Yours?”

“No, smartass, Broom Hilda’s.”

“I could use it.”

“Be there in twenty.”

“See you then.”

Good to see an old friend, he thought. God knows why she stuck around here. But then he wasn't complaining either.

“One a.m. she is nothing if not punctual.”

He opened the door before she knocked. It gave her the impression he was psychic, but then she remembered her car wasn't exactly the quiet type. She liked living on the edge because it made her feel alive. She got off from the danger, about as dangerous as it got in this town. Especially with his twin brother.

It was 3:00 a.m. before they both called it quits for the night and fell asleep due to mutual exhaustion. 7 o'clock and Hells Bells were right around the corner.

He woke with a start. The clock on the wall read 7:55 a.m. He looked around the recently vacated room and found the note she'd left halfway under the lamp. He put on his reading glasses and read the following:

Dearest Michael;

I was never very good at long goodbyes, but then we both knew that ten years ago. A girl needs some stability in her life. That's why I'm moving back with my sister. Knew you’d understand then and now. You were always my first choice.

Love always,

Lesa

“Well, hate to break it to you lover, but your stability’s gonna to be blown to hell along with the rest of the trash in the sleepy little town,” he said to himself as he crumpled letter, threw it in the john and flushed the toilet after taking care of business. He laughed at the gesture’s implications. One more private joke among many.