Green Valley Lane by Keigh Ahr

Green Valley Lane by Keigh Ahr

Most nights, I wouldn’t notice the nondescript gray sedan idling behind me as I wait at this traffic light. But this seemingly innocuous four-door has been following me since I got off the highway. And I somehow know if I can’t get it off my tail, the sedan is going to follow me all the way to my home on Green Valley Lane.

I check the intersection as the traffic light turns yellow in the crossing direction. Other side of the median has an SUV in the turn lane, a pickup with a few cars behind it in the thru. Turn lane in my direction’s empty, so when the opposite light turns green I yank the steering wheel hard left and accelerate across both lanes. The pickup must not see me, as it keeps coming–I don’t have the acceleration to get all the way past–I can feel the pickup bearing down on my fender…

The pickup’s brakes skirch into the pavement, and in my sideview mirror I see the cab lurch over the front wheels, its horn blaring like an Alex Jones fan posting on 4Chan. Tough luck, bubba. I invest in vehicular performance and speed, which is why my sports coupe is now cruising away untouched.

The street I’m on now leads to an industrial district, and as my coupe approaches a T-intersection I glance up at the rearview mirror. The line of vehicles behind the pickup passes under the traffic light, and when the last car passes the boxy outline of the sedan turns in my direction. There’s enough streetlight to reveal a design from the early 90s: door frames meeting the roof at sharp angles, fenders bulging under the quarter panels, stark creases along the hood, intersecting lines covering the grill like a primitive cage. The type of car my father would have driven around the time he left my mother.

As its headlights grow larger in my mirrors I turn right at the T-intersection and dismiss any remaining doubt about being followed. Only buildings down here are warehouses and loading docks, all closed hours ago. There’s nothing the driver of the sedan could be after other than me. What’s happening now is reminding me of the time I was robbed last year, in the parking garage after work. I should probably drive to a police station like you’re supposed to do when being followed, but after the cops didn’t catch the punk who jumped me I don’t want anything to do with law enforcement. Besides, I bought a little insurance policy after getting mugged last year; tonight might be when my investment finally pays off.

But when I drive past an electronics warehouse a better idea, and potentially a lot more fun, comes to me. Picked up some security cameras at the warehouse a few weeks ago to save on the ridiculous delivery charge, and one of the dock workers told me about a shortcut, a truck entrance connecting to the state route leading to my subdivision. As I approach another stop sign, I check the rearview, and see the sedan just arriving at the T-intersection. Remembering the instructions for the shortcut, I turn left instead of taking the right that leads back into town. Accelerating past canyons of dark buildings on either side of the narrow street, I get to the next cross street and turn left again. Straight at the next three streets, then one more left. My mirrors have been dark since I started on the shortcut, and as I approach the state route there’s still nothing back there.

Adios, pendejo… sayanora, sucker. I turn onto the state route and head towards my subdivision and home on Green Valley Lane.

A few miles later, the fuel light on my dashboard illuminates. There’s a convenience store ahead, where I usually stop on Wednesday evenings after the fuel price drops. The coupe has enough in the tank to get me home, but for the trip back to the office I’ll have to get gas in the morning before the price goes down. I think about the sedan that had been following me, how it could catch up to me if I stop now. But I remember a set of pumps beyond the far end of the store, barely visible from the road. Deciding the sedan’s unlikely to see me there, I pull into the convenience store’s lot.

I get to the pumps, exit the coupe, and look back towards the state route. Like I thought, I can barely see the road from here. I dip a credit card into the pump and feed the cold snakehead of the fuel handle into my car. Exhaling, I look around, and my eyes catch a sign in the store window. MILK. STATE MINIMUM PRICE! The faux enthusiasm is nauseating, but I did empty the carton in the morning. Gas handle clicks off, and after returning the snake back to its home on the pump and locking my coupe I walk towards the front entrance. Verifying the sedan hasn’t entered the lot, I then go through the sliding glass doors, into the store.

The clerk tonight’s the fat kid, not the petulant Katy Perry wannabe. Fat boy waves to me, like I should know him. Freak. Kid starts wheezing like an asthmatic Buddha. I walk past the glass pots of stale coffee, shelves of no-bake pastry, bagged candy and beef jerky hanging on hooks. Milk’s in the far corner, next to the beer cave. Check the price—state minimum my butt, convenience stores get away with extortion. Not worth the time for another stop. Screw it, buy the milk and get the hell out of here.

“Forget something?” the clerk asks I approach the counter. I look up and ask, “What do you mean?”

“Weren’t you just here?” He points to his head. “You was wearing a hat, what they call it, you see them in gangster movies–a fredola?”

Am I going to let this clown pull me into this conversation? “I think you mean fedora.” Yeah, I guess I am.

Buddha-boy smiles. “Yeah, that’s it!”

I shake my head. “I don’t wear hats. They make me uncomfortable.” As does this conversation, fat boy.

“Huh. Guess that’s fair, me mistaking you for somebody else.” The kid punches his sausage fingers into the terminal and gasps, as if his lungs are collapsing. Go to the gym, kid.   “People’s always confusing me and my cousin, Wilson, on account me and him look so much alike, and his name so similar to me.” I check his name tag: WILLIE. “Born on the same day too, if you can believe.” Feel free to shut up anytime. “Need anything else? Lottery ticket?”

“No,” I reply, hoping he hears the impatience in my voice.

“No lady friend tonight?” I stare back at him, saying nothing, waiting for him to continue. “Sorry, I just remember you being here before, few months back, with your lady friend.”

He must mean Sheila. We probably stopped here during one of our house-hunting trips last spring. I shake my head. “Well, she’s not exactly a lady, and certainly not my friend anymore. I just got back from my lawyer to sign the divorce papers.”

“Oh.” Kid sounds sorry. Should be. “That’s too bad.”

I grunt, swipe my card, and grab the milk carton from the counter. “Depends on your perspective,” I tell him, then hustle out of the store before he can ask another stupid question.

Only one other vehicle in the lot, must belong to Buddha-boy. Bet he’s lonely, but all that talking, give me a break, kid got on my nerves. A real Buddha-pest. Start the coupe, get back on the state route. No other cars on the road–yeah it’s a Tuesday night in February, but I’ve never seen it this empty. Then I remember being out later than usual after seeing my lawyer… and see headlights in my rearview.

A car passes the convenience store I just left. Light from the store reveals a sight both unspectacular and familiar: the drab sedan that had been following me earlier.

That’s just great, Buddha-pest delayed me, gave the sedan time to catch up. It closes on my coupe, headlights growing larger in my mirrors. Must be five feet from my rear when I push the accelerator. Something’s different this time, the driver’s being more aggressive than he was back in the industrial district. I’m beginning to think it’s time to pull over and show him my insurance policy when I pass a road sign: POST RD 1/2 MILE. I think of another way to lose the sedan, like I did back at the warehouses. I accelerate as the coupe approaches Post, then without braking or slowing charge into the turn, fishtailing across both lanes of the empty road until I regain control. It’s hardly surprising to see the sedan’s headlights still in my rearview. I’m actually kind of glad, knowing the driver behind me has no idea what I’m planning.

Been down the Post Road a few times, back when Sheila and I were looking at homes last year. A few miles ahead, Post leads into a network of crisscrossing county roads. There’s no symmetry or pattern; if you looked at the area from above the county roads would probably look like some kid dropped a handful of uncooked spaghetti on the floor. It’s easy to lose your bearings. We got lost in there a few times, even the GPS had trouble finding a way back to Post.

Light floods the interior of my coupe–the sedan’s come within a foot and has turned on its high-beams. I get to the first intersecting county road, turn right without stopping, and accelerate to the next intersection, entering the heart of the maze. Coming to an intersection every few hundred yards, I turn or go straight without stopping, not caring about the direction. The sedan tries to keep up but it doesn’t have the power or agility of my coupe. After the third or fourth turn, I begin to get separation. Accelerate past the next few intersections, and he’s two or three car lengths back. A few turns later, I come to a long stretch of road, a field on my right, clumps of shriveled cornstalks rising out of the snow. Approach another intersection, check the mirrors. Nothing.

A left, then two more rights. Haven’t seen the sedan in my mirrors for several minutes. I pull over and smile, thinking about the sedan’s driver somewhere back in the maze, trying to find his way out. Got what he deserved, trying to rob me. Wouldn’t have gotten much anyway, my wallet only has a couple twenties and a handful of cards I would’ve cancelled with a few calls. The papers I signed tonight gave Sheila everything else of value, except a home I’ll be paying for the rest of my life. All I own now is a bunch of debt.

I activate the onboard navigation on my console and press the Home button. The route to Green Valley Lane appears: a left, three rights to get back on the Post Road, a straight shot to the state route, turn right, then a few more miles to the entrance of my subdivision. Home in a dozen minutes. I press OK, and the console’s mechanical voice instructs me to please proceed to the highlighted route.

Following the GPS’s instructions, I’m back on the Post Road a few minutes later. The road’s been plowed, but there’s a thin layer of snow stretching across the pavement, like an Oreo split open. No streetlights; the coupe’s headlights bounce off snowbanks that look like icebergs. Pass a farmhouse, one Sheila and I looked at. Not a single light on, interior or exterior. Creepy, half expect to see a corpse hanging from one of the leafless trees in the yard.

I get on to the state route, and after cruising past a few S-turns I crest a hill and see the entrance to my subdivision on the horizon… and blue flashing lights in my mirrors. A siren beeps two short blasts. A cop? Really? I pull over, and the blue lights of the police car stop behind the coupe.

A door closes, and in my side-view mirror I see a cop approaching. Under the parka, I can make out a narrow waist and broad hips. Cripes, a broad. I consider telling her about the sedan that’s been following me, but what would I say? I’ve got no evidence, no way to prove the sedan’s been following me all evening. Can’t point to a consistent pattern of threatening behavior, the definition of stalking my lawyer gave me tonight, right before telling me to stay away from Sheila’s condo.

I roll the window down as the cop stops outside my door and bends at the waist. I ask, “Is there a problem?”

“Good evening.” I recognize her voice, some kind of British accent, or Irish maybe, high-pitched and irritating, like a receptionist unhappy with her job. “Are you aware your left taillight is out?”

Why are you pulling me over for that? “No I didn’t,” I lie. “Guess I need to get that fixed.” I look up, and when I see the narrow eyes behind the round lenses in the cop’s wire-framed glasses I finally remember where I’ve seen her before. “Don’t you work in the city?” I ask.

The cop smiles. “Not any longer. Transferred to county in the fall.”

“I see,” I reply. You don’t remember me, do you–the man whose statement you took while he was being stitched up in the hospital after being mugged.

“I like being away from the city,” she tells me in her infuriating voice. “Lot quieter, especially tonight. Dead out here.” The dingbat’s also probably forgotten about my calling her the following week, or how she claimed to be following some leads. She said nearly the same words when I called the following week and every subsequent week until I realized this detective was as incompetent as most of the people who work for me.

“You haven’t seen anything?” I ask.

“Nah, slow night.” Detective Dingbat taps my door twice. “Just get your taillight fixed in a week, all right?”

I look up at her and imagine what I could say. Good thing you’re a traffic cop now because you really sucked as an investigator. Deciding not to waste further time with Detective Dingbat, I just tell her some garbage about needing to get my oil changed anyway and how I hope she stays warm this evening…

A car, approaching from behind, passes the cop in the opposite lane. The blue lights of the squad car illuminate the sharp angles of the gray sedan that’s been pursuing me all evening. The vehicle slows as it passes, nearly stopping as its entire length comes into my view, as if its driver wants to be sure I see him. The car then pulls forward and glides over the median into the lane in front of my coupe and continues along.

“Sir?”

I shake my head. “Sorry. Long day at the office.” At least that part’s accurate.

“Are you OK? Because all of a sudden, you look worried –- ”

“Told you I’m all right. You giving me a ticket, or not?”

Detective Dingbat steps back and shakes her head. “Like I said, just get the taillight fixed in a week.” She then walks backwards to her vehicle, keeping her eyes focused on me, until she opens the door and gets in the car. She turns the police lights off then pulls onto the road, takes a broad U-turn, and heads back towards the town.

As the cop car disappears, I pull back onto the state route and resume the route home.  My mind’s made up–no cops. Even if Detective Dingbat believes me, I can’t excuse her for not catching the thug who assaulted me, and I’m not letting her screw up another investigation. Plus, after the way the sedan just passed me, I now can see where this confrontation is headed. It’s all clear to me: how, when, and where this all ends.

I pull into the subdivision and cruise along Pleasant Hill Drive, a meandering oval connecting to smaller tributary streets, each one with some asinine pastoral name. As I pass Peachtree Road and Meadowview Court, the streetlamps in the subdivision flicker off and the houses around me go dark. Another blackout, third this month. At the furthest end of the oval is Green Valley Lane, a thumbnail of a street ending in a cul-de-sac in front of a large forest preserve.

As the turn for Green Valley Lane approaches, I exhale, calming myself. I wonder again who could be behind the wheel of the sedan and realize his motive can’t be robbery. A thief wouldn’t be this obvious. Has to be somebody with a grudge. Not Sheila, direct confrontation isn’t her style. The boyfriend she was seeing while we were still married? Have I angered anyone, from work maybe? I manage a trading floor with a tight margin, making people upset is my job.

I’m not surprised when I turn on to Green Valley Lane and see the sedan parked outside my home. Its headlights are off, and standing outside the car I see the driver, moonlight revealing his silhouette. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of a trench coat, and he’s wearing a fedora. Must have been the guy Buddha-Pest saw. I stop the coupe a few dozen yards in front of him, turn off the ignition… then reach under the seat for my insurance policy.

My fingers brush over the buttons of the safe, and klick, the biometric lock opens. I pull the Glock from the safe and jam the gun into my coat pocket before opening the coupe door. Sheila thought I was crazy, and the bald Marine who led that ridiculous safety class I had to take would go nuts if he saw me doing this. But Sheila didn’t get mugged, and I’m not in class anymore. I finally get to use my weapon for the reason I got it in the first place.

An icy tongue of February wind licks my face as I step out of the car. The guy in the fedora keeps his hands in his pockets, not moving at all as I step in front of my coupe, and call to him: “What’s the deal with you?”

The vapor of my breath rises in the winter night. Fedora Guy remains silent and still.

I decide to stop waiting for a response. “You’ve been following me since I got off the highway. What do you want?”

Fedora Guy takes a step forward, then another. His dark figure advances methodically towards me.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” I draw the gun out of my pocket and aim the weapon at his head. My thumb flicks on the laser sight, the red dot landing under the brim of his fedora. “This ends, NOW! Put your hands where I can see them!”

Acting like he doesn’t hear me, Fedora Guy continues his steady advance.

I release the trigger lock and load the gun chamber. “Stop MESSING with me.” Seeing he doesn’t intend to stop, I decide to fire a warning shot. I aim the gun above his head, squeeze the trigger…

And forget to set myself, like the bald Marine had trained me. The recoil throws off my balance and I stumble back, my rear foot landing on an ice patch, then suddenly I’m slipping, unable to control my momentum, legs flying out from under me, body falling, crashing onto the street… then everything goes dark.

My eyes snap open. I sit up and immediately regret the decision as my body spasms in pain. I can’t do anything other than stare up at the night and notice a streetlamp coming back on. I cautiously move my arms, then my legs; I ache all over but don’t feel any sharp pain, nothing broken. Attempt to sit up again–

And then I remember. The sedan, Fedora Guy, my gun. An adrenaline rush pushes me past the pain and I get on my feet. My eyes catch the glint of the Glock lying on the street in front of me, and I pounce on it, then raise the weapon and aim in the direction of Fedora Guy.

Only to discover he and his sedan are no longer there.

I swing around quickly, pointing the gun down Green Valley Lane, but the street is vacant save for my coupe. Even though I don’t see or hear any approaching vehicles, I keep the gun out and step backwards to where the sedan had been parked, my mouth puffing out clouds of steam like an overworked engine. I glance down at the pavement in front of my home and see only snow and ice. I stare down the street again and when I don’t see any activity I lower the Glock, engage the trigger lock, and put it back in my pocket. Then I squat down in the area where the sedan had been parked but find no blood, glass, or metal. I check the path Fedora Guy took as he approached me and don’t find anything there either.

Shaking my head, I try to figure out what happened. My warning shot probably flew over Fedora Guy’s head and landed in the forest preserve at the end of the street. He must have panicked when I fired and decided to run away after I fell and blacked out. I resume walking to my coupe, which I have to leave on the street since I can’t get into my garage until the builder pours the driveway in the spring. I retrieve the milk from the front seat, lock the coupe, and as I walk towards my home, realize how glad I am to be the only current occupant of Green Valley Lane. No witnesses. Somebody on Peachtreee or Meadowview or Echoing Whatever might have heard the shot and could call the cops. Maybe I’ll get another visit from Detective Dingbat, but if she does come I’ll just tell her someone tried breaking into my home and I ran out and fired a shot to scare him off. They have the castle doctrine in this state, the only information of interest I learned from the bald Marine. I’m protected. No big deal.

I step over the frozen mud of my yard (seeding’s another task for the spring), then bounce onto the stoop before the front door… and stop on seeing an object on the welcome mat. I squat and examine it under the faint light coming from the streetlamp.

A hat, with a narrow brim on all its sides, the crown indented and pinched at the top, forming a peak at its front. Brown, with a thin black band around the base of crown. The materials look expensive, the tailoring expert. An impeccable fedora.

Why’d he leave this? Is this some kind of message, Fedora Guy’s way of letting me know he’ll be back? I pick up the hat and stand, then pull the Glock out of my pocket. Turning on the laser sight, I aim the red beam down the street. I hope he does return tonight or tries following me again after work tomorrow, Sheila’s boyfriend or whoever Fedora Guy is. I’ll be ready for him.

After turning off the laser and pocketing the gun again, I retrieve my house keys and unlock the front door. I step through the threshold, flip on a light, and see a mirror Sheila had hung on the wall immediately inside the door for some harebrained reason. Seeing it again reminds me of the day Sheila and I signed the papers to start construction on this house. We both thought buying a home would save our marriage, but Sheila saw the house as a place to raise a family I’ve never wanted and I was looking to get away from the crime in the city. Buying this house demonstrated just how incompatible we really were, and moving here felt like arriving at the final stop on a train bound for nowhere. Over the past few weeks, I’ve begun to consider moving on from my mistake and putting the house on the market.

But that was before my bizarre encounter this evening. This house became my refuge tonight, the place where I didn’t have to run any farther. The house no longer seems like a dead end but rather a beginning, an opportunity to hit the reset button on my life. Let Sheila have the money; I came away from the divorce with the only thing of value.

I look at the mirror again, and pause. My reflection doesn’t seem right, like there’s something missing. I then realize I’m still holding the only evidence of tonight’s adventure. On an impulse, I lift the fedora and place it on my head, then check my reflection again.

Looks pretty good on me!

After stepping out onto the stoop to take one last look of satisfaction down the empty street, I then pull myself inside and close the door to my home on Green Valley Lane.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Keigh Ahr 2023