Free Dead Reckoning by Tom Wright Page B

junk.
                  I moved to the last closet and pulled out a box. I opened the lid and stopped cold. I sat back in amongst the garbage and opened the cover of a picture album. The first page held a photo of Kate, beaming from ear to ear, cuddling our newborn Elaine. After twenty-four hours of grueling labor, she still lit up the room. She only seemed more beautiful to me as time went on. On the next page was a picture of Charlie, on the brand new bike he got for his fourth birthday—the bike that freed him from the “baby trailer” that Kate pulled behind her bike—the bike that years later he refused to give up for a “big-boy-bike” despite its size and condition, because it was his first bike and he “loved it.”
    A lump formed in my throat as I closed the album and set it carefully back in the box. I got up and began to walk away, then stopped, then started, then stopped again. I finally raced back to the box and ripped it open. I tore the photos of Kate and the girls and Charlie and his bike from the album and stuffed them in my pocket.
    I checked my watch again. It was time. I moved toward the door, turned and took another look at all our stuff. The house was a disaster, but everything I really needed was in a single duffel bag in the middle of the floor—and in my pocket—and five thousand miles away. I stepped through the back door, and there sat Charlie’s little bike, rusting against a pole, lonely and waiting for him to return. If we never returned, I knew the fate of that little bike that Charlie loved. The humid, salty air would slowly melt it into the ground. I craned my neck to choke back some approaching tears and set off toward the chow hall.
     
    . . .
     
    Deputy police chief Bill Callaway looked nothing like what one might expect from someone in his position. His shoulder-length hair and beard were totally out of character for a cop and even more so on a military base. His imposing figure along with a badge and gun frightened most people. But after four years as his friend and teammate in league basketball, I knew him to be a nice, gentle person—off the court that was. On the court he was a beast, a whirlwind of flying elbows and knees, and I was convinced that he could have boxed out a Sherman tank for a rebound.
    I knew I would find him heading to the chow hall for lunch at eleven a.m. sharp. He liked to get there right at opening so he could beat the lines. It seemed lost on him that he probably could have walked right to the front of any line unchallenged. I just hoped his partner Tim wouldn’t be with him as he was about half the time. Tim was a nice guy, but a very straight-laced, military type. He sported a crew cut, spit-shined his boots, and always walked as if marching in formation. He was the opposite of Bill in many ways. I didn’t expect Tim to be sympathetic to my plight, and I definitely didn’t want him to know anything about our plan.
    When I rolled up to the police station at 10:58, Bill was just coming out, Tim right on his heels. I cursed under my breath. I could have just waited until later to get him alone, but I decided time was of the essence. I had to think fast.
    I caught Bill’s eye and nodded and he returned the gesture. He and Tim waited for me to park my bike and join them for the hundred yard walk to the chow hall.
    “Hey buddy!” Bill said, slapping me on the back as he always did—his form of a handshake. Tim nodded.
    “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
    “Thought I might buy you lunch.”
    Bill and Tim both laughed at my joke since chow on the island was free to all residents—just part of the perks.
    I scanned my brain for some way to get rid of Tim and quickly settled on the only thread that surfaced.              Tim was not only a deputy in the police department, but the island locksmith.
    “Tim, we’ve been having some problems with the cipher lock on the east end of the weather station after Ele. I was wondering