Variance - Book 1, Issue #3

Waco, Texas

Day 2 of The Rise

     Martha Lindgren was a math teacher.  Certainly not a spectacular math teacher, but a decent one in her own right.  She taught at Texas Christian Academy for thirty-four years, taught solely tenth graders, and taught solely advanced algebra.  She never had a complaint filed against her, never a disruptive student she couldn’t handle, and had been nominated (but never won) Teacher of the Year in her district three times.

     On the last day before Christmas break, Martha Lindgren retired.  She said she wanted to travel, to finally get out of Waco.  While they were well aware she had not crossed the state line in over a decade, her colleagues took up a “Martha Fund” in order to chip in a little something extra for her trip to Italy.  She and her husband, Hank, were going to fly into Tuscany, drive along the coast of the Mediterranean, hop a boat to Sardegna, find some crummy prop plane to take them over to Rome, and finish up in Emilia-Romagna where they would dine on fresh plates of lasagna and drink countless bottles of Lambrusco.  They made no reservations, and hadn’t decided on how long to stay.  They were just going.  

     And they deserved it.

     Earlier that month, Martha had made arrangements to meet with the local travel agent, Russ Buckner, before their trip.  Russ wanted to go over a few restaurants where they could dine, give them a list of sights to see, and suggest a couple of hotels where they could lay down their troubles for the night.

     But there would be no reservations.  

     “Oh no!  No reservations at all!”  Martha had told him during their first meeting.  “I won’t hear of it.”

     No reservations at all?  Russ played the thought over and over in his head.  How strange.

     Martha’s meeting with Russ was at a half past two that day.  She was running a tad bit late because she couldn’t find the right shoes to wear.  And even though she was the ripe age of sixty-eight she still had the fashion consciousness of a fifteen year old on her first day of school.

     “Jus-hro-n-su-choo-n-go!” Hank shouted from the den.  He had on the Rangers game and was hard to hear over the color commentary. 

     “What?” Martha called from upstairs.

     “Just throw on some shoes and go!”  He yelled, louder this time.

     Martha rolled her eyes.  “There are specific shoes that go with specific outfits, Hank!  But I suppose a fashion maven like you already knew that!” 

     “Russ Buckner don’t care what yer wearing!” he barked.

     “I don’t give a holy hell ‘bout Russ Buckner!” 

     “Ahhh!” Hank scoffed.

     “Ahhh yourself!” she shouted back, nose deep in her closet.

     They didn’t speak for a few seconds.

     “I love you!” he called up to her.

     “I love ya more, ya old grouch!”

     It took a few minutes more of extensive digging before Martha found the cream-colored Penny Loafers she was so desperately searching for.  The shoes were nothing fancy, but against her lemon-colored sundress she found it to be a near perfect match.  Russ Buckner—though unsaid—would have thought otherwise.

     “Back in an hour,” she told Hank as she took a step into the den.

     He looked her up and down then returned his attention to the Ranger game, “You look nice.”

     “Thank you,” she said taking a modest courtesy.  Martha slung her purse over her shoulder and left.  

     He didn’t watch her go.

* * *

     Martha arrived at Russ Buckner’s office at a quarter to three.  She hated when people were late and hated even more when she was the culprit.  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” Martha said as she entered Russ’s office. 

     Russ was sitting at his desk eating with a newspaper laid out in front of him.  Next to the paper was a Styrofoam container that housed two chili cheese dogs.  Russ Buckner was short and squat.  He had a round body, shaped much like a pear or a strawberry.  The kids would often joke that if Russ fell onto his side you could roll him down the street the way they did with Violet Beaurgard in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”  His hair was blonde and thinning and he wrapped it around his head in an unpleasant combover.  He had thin spectacles propped on the edge of his nose, which he promptly took off when Martha entered his office.  “It’s quite all right, Martha, I was just finishing up the paper,” he said greeting her with a firm handshake.  “Did you read about what happened in Kansas last night?”

     “No, what?” Martha asked.

     “Mother of two shot and killed her kids and her husband during dinner.  Cops can’t figure out what possessed her or what set her off.  Damndest thing I ever read about.”

     “Oh dear…”  Martha brought her fingers to her lips and muttered, “How terrible…”

     “Husband must notta liked her cass’role,” Russ quipped.

     “Oh, Russ, you’re awful,” Martha said playfully slapping his arm.

     “I know, I know, I shouldn’t joke.  Please, have a seat.”

     Russ’s office was decorated in a predictably crass fashion.  There were trophies of nearly every animal imaginable plastered against the sheetrock.  Bucks, elk, bear, pheasant.  There was even a stuffed armadillo in the corner nearest the bathroom.  There was a Miller Lite neon beer sign propped on a faux leather sitting chair.  And, while the sign was unlit, that did little to diminish its gaudiness.  His desk was piled with papers so high they always seemed on the verge of spilling over.  But they never did.

     Martha took a seat across from Russ.  He shifted a few of his precarious papers out of courtesy, but its effect was minimal.  

     “So, I just wanted to give you this packet.”  He handed her a thick, green folder.  “In it you’ll find a bunch of places to stop along your route.  Now, I know you were specific about no reservations, but I figured it might be wise to have a little research handy while you’re bombing down those Italian roads.”  

     Martha opened the folder and flipped through it with the same casual disinterest she had displayed when he pressured her about all those precious reservations.  She figured it was because he got some sort of commission if they did, but she didn’t mind.  Russ was a good guy, and an even better friend to her, Hank, and the community.  But this was her trip, and for the first time in her life, she was going to do things exactly how she wanted them done.

     “Well thank you, Russ, I really app—“ But she stopped short of finishing when she saw Russ’s head twitched slightly.  It was neither vivid nor pronounced, it was just there.  At first, she didn’t think she had seen it correctly, and then his head twitched again.  His brow furrowed in an expression of pain, and his right eye blinked at twice the speed of his left.  After a few seconds, his smile returned and he stared back at her as if nothing had happened.

     “Are you all right?”

     “‘Course I am,” he said.  “Why?”

     “Russ…you were twitching,” she said in a low whisper.  

     “I was what?” he asked, almost incredulously.

     “You were twitching, like you were having a stroke or a seizure or something.”

     “That’s impossible.”

     “I could call Dr. Northman, if you’d like.”

     Russ waved her off with a hand of “nonsense” and insisted she keep perusing the packet.  

     And that packet in her lap was almost enough to distract her from Russ’s third tick.  He clenched his fists, turning his knuckles white, and squeeze his eyes shut.  When he finally opened them the forest green of his irises was still there, but Russ Buckner was not.  He blinked and, when he did, Martha saw a sharp red circle surrounding those green eyes that now seemed so horrible.  They pierced Martha with such a viciousness she felt like she were about to tip over in her chair.  Russ Buckner had an emotionless grin stretched ear to ear.  

     “Will you excuse me for a moment?” Russ’s hollow voice asked.

     Martha didn’t answer, but Russ pushed back his chair anyway and stood up.  His body was stiff and rigid; the muscles in his body seemed suddenly new and unused.  He moved into the bathroom behind his desk and shut the door.

     Martha considered leaving.  She had Russ’s “research,” what more did she need?  But what if he was having a stroke?  Or a seizure?  Or something much worse?  She glanced at the exit, but then stood and rounded Russ’s desk.

     “Russ?”

     There was no answer.

     “Russ?” she tried again.

     Martha inched closer to the bathroom door, her fingers trembling as she reached for its handle.           “Russ, are you all right?”  She turned the handle only to discover the door was locked.  She took a step back, but found her hands were still trembling.

     “Russ, I’m going to call an ambulance.”

     She heard a soft whimpering coming from the other side of the door.  It was low at first, but soon amplified into a wailing drone.

     “Russ?”  Martha leaned forward and pressed her ear against the clunky plywood door.  “Russ, can you hear me?”

     And Russ could hear her.  He could hear her very, very well.

     Even through the flimsy plywood door, Martha Lindgren didn’t hear the cocking of the .45 semi-automatic Russ kept above his medicine cabinet.  Nor could she hear the low chuckle rumbling from Russ’s lungs.  But she did hear the sound of the hammer dropping on the gun.

     The bullet exploded from the barrel at approximately eight hundred feet per second.  If Russ fired the gun from seven feet, how many seconds would it take to travel from the gun into Martha’s skull?  

Anybody?  Anybody?  Nobody in class knows?  Nobody has any idea?  How very disappointing!

     Martha was dead before she hit the floor, and that’s as much detail as the police would provide.

     But it was not the end for Russ Buckner that day.  After he killed Martha, he exited the bathroom, finished his chilidogs as Martha Lindgren’s blood pooled under his loafers, and left.  The mailman, Wally Beerman, saw Russ lock up his office before Russ turned on him and fired a single shot into his head.  Wally’s eyes rolled back and he dropped to the ground in a crumpled mess.

     Russ crossed the street to where Mrs. Howard was sitting with her dog, Buddy.  He fired one shot into her chest and another into her stomach.

     He let the dog live.

     By now there was panic in the street and people were screaming at Russ to stop.  He walked past them with the same mechanical glaze he had shown the late Mrs. Lindgren only minutes previous.

Paul Itna, high school football coach at Texas Christian Academy, stepped out of the Floyd’s barbershop.  He still had a towel wrapped around his neck and fresh shaving cream lathered on the left side of his face.  “Russ, what the hell you doing?” Paul Itna cried.

     Russ fired a shot that entered Paul Itna’s left cheek and exited the back of his neck.  The blood mixed with the shaving cream and ran into the street like a spilled strawberry milkshake. 

Floyd, the barber, tried to run for cover but Russ fired two shots, one into Floyd’s back, just above the kidney, and the other into his head.  The glasses Floyd was wearing spun off of his face and he fell forward onto the sidewalk.

     Russ would kill Jolie Daniels, Kyle Nelson, and Luther Gladden before his gun was empty.  

     When police arrived to the scene Russ was sitting outside Floyd’s having a smoke.  His expressionless face juxtaposed against the spinning barber pole was all that was needed to cover their arms in rich layers of gooseflesh.

     “Russ?” one of the policeman asked.

     But Russ said nothing.  He inhaled and exhaled.  Inhaled and exhaled.
     Russ Buckner smiled.
     And the wheel turned.