Free Simple Simon by Ryne Douglas Pearson

forward stance, he left the upstairs bedroom and advanced with care down the stairs, measuring each step, easing his feet lightly to the treads below. Near the bottom he crouched and scanned the front room. Nothing. The front door was still closed, and nothing seemed amiss here. He continued, coming upright at floor level and checking both left and right; left farther into the living room, and right toward the kitchen. He saw the mother’s legs through the arched opening, but not the—
    “Bastard,” Martin Lynch said from behind the red-haired man. He had gone into the den through the archway directly across from the kitchen, and had come out through the opening to the living room. In the den was a china hutch. Resting atop it had been a .38 caliber revolver. Martin Lynch now held it in his right hand.
    He shot the red haired man six times in the back before collapsing himself. His last thought was of his son, and what would become of him, and before the world went dark Martin Lynch dropped the revolver and reached into his shirt pocket.
    *  *  *
    BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
    Simon’s body shuddered at the loud noise. It seemed to echo, going on, and on, and on. His ears rang almost painfully.
    It scared him. The loud noise scared him.
    He knew what to do.
    With his face stinging and one eye swollen almost shut, Simon pulled his cards from beneath his sweatshirt. He flipped through them to the one titled STORM . IF A LOUD NOYZ SKAIRS YU AND IT  GTS LOUDR AND YU KANT FIND MOMMY AND DADDY THN GO TO TH BASMNT
    Simon replaced the cards and put the magazine that lay on his lap under his arm and walked out of his bedroom. His eyes scanned the carpet at his feet. One hurt very bad. He did not cry.
    The ringing in his ears crescendoed. Simon held the banister in his right hand and went down the steps as quickly as he could. He stopped there and searched the living room with one watery eye. He was not crying. “Mommy. Daddy.”
    No answer came. Simon took a step then stopped. There was something at his feet. It was the man who showed him the puzzle. The man who hit him. “Mommy. Daddy.”
    Nothing, and the sound in his head now deepened, gaining bass, thundering in time to the throbbing around his eye. Mommy and Daddy were not answering. He had to get to the basement. The man on the floor was in the way.
    Simon’s feet shuffled in place for a moment. Then he lifted one over the man, and the other. He walked past the kitchen and stopped one last time as the avalanche of noise grew. “Mommy. Daddy.”
    They were not here. If they were here they would come. Simon knew what to do.
    He walked quickly to the door to the basement, opened it, and closed it behind. His footsteps were light on the stairs as he descended.
     
     

 
Chapter   Four
    The Friend Card
    The silver Volvo 940 eased into the minor stream rushing down the gutter and stopped curbside in front of the Federal Building. Art opened the door and stepped across the waterway to enter the warm interior of the wedding present he’d given his wife. She accelerated into a break in the traffic and began the trek to the JFK Expressway.
    “Thanks for the lift, babe,” Art said as he opened the front of his overcoat. Hot air washed over him from the vents.
    “It’s no problem,” Anne replied tepidly, her eyes straight ahead, thumb tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. The stereo was off. Her husband leaned over and kissed her cheek.
    “My car took a crap this afternoon,” Art explained. Six months old and the Bureau Chevy had thrown a rod! “And can you believe there wasn’t one damn spare in pool?” Budget cuts were wonderful things, he was thinking when he realized Anne wasn’t commenting. He turned attention to her and saw her ‘I’m not pleased with myself’ face. Had it been her ‘I’m not pleased with you ’ face she’d be looking at him, or at whoever was deserving of it. Instead, she stared blankly at the brake lights ahead, but Art