When The Time Comes

chapter 26; Omar

Liberty doesn't get out of the way in time. It happens so fast that I can barely comprehend what's just happened. The people in the car, Stewart's killers, got what they wanted though. I run over to where Liberty is sprawled on the road, giving them the opportunity to escape. 

 Before they disappear completely out of sight, I get a good look at their license plate. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, my hands are unstable as I call for an ambulance. On my knees beside Liberty, I look over her, stopping at her legs that don't look right at all. Fuck, stay focused. Liberty whimpers in pain, like an audible shiver. She doesn't yell or scream. I can't gauge her pain. 

"Liberty," I squeeze her shoulder, terrified of hurting her any further.

Her eyes are shut tight and her breathing becomes shallow. We wait for the ambulance together and I make sure I save the license plate number in my phone. I feel selfish being on my phone like this but without identifying their car, this would have all been for nothing. 

I call her name again but her eyes remain closed. Her face is red and I can see a pulsating vein in her neck. I realize just how much pain she is in.

Patting her hair down softly, I try to comfort her. But in truth, I think it's too calm myself down. It hasn't dawned on me yet. At least I don't think it has. I don't feel much other than fear of the injury Liberty's endured. She won't speak or shout. I'm looking for any ques, any signs of what's happened and what she needs.

"Liberty," I say in a low voice, urging her to open her eyes.

In the distance, a glimmer in my peripheral, something glows. At first, I pay  it no attention. But it grows and grows until I can no longer ignore it. A house. No, a specific house. The one we'd just been in minutes ago is now harboring a raging fire. I almost get to my feet but I don't want to leave Liberty alone. 

The fuckers are hiding evidence.

I tear my eyes off the building and look at the neighbor's windows. None of the curtains are drawn. I'm the only one seeing this. For a second, it feels like an outer body experience. It is short lived though. It's hard but I got to leave Liberty so I can warn the people who live next door.

I run as fast as I can, leaping into their garden and hammering my fist on their door. Wake up, wake up you fools.

I call 911 again. This time I request a fire truck. Smoke from inside pours out through the open door, making it hard to breathe from here. It's thick and black, quickly rising to the roof tops. Eventually, a light turns on from inside the neighbors house. I back away, eyes glued on the fire. A beast growing in size and power. I haven't ever seen a fire like this up close.  Inside the house, Stewart's rotting body is engulfed in flames.

What did you get yourself into, I can't help but wonder. Your wife knew. She did this. 

The question is, did he know?

The ambulance sirens can be heard in the distance. By the time they pull into the street, neighbors now spot the road, huddled together. All of them, shocked and concerned. They look at Liberty and I, perhaps wondering who the fuck we are.

They take Liberty on a stretcher and ask me our names. The tallest guy with a dark complexion and a single bright green eye, asks me where I live. It's the only question I have trouble answering. I hesitate and look over his shoulder at where the others transfer Liberty inside the vehicle. On the roof of it, the flashing ambulatory lights kick a headache off in my head. Fuck, why are they so bright?

"Sir?" he breaks me out of my thoughts. I look at his blue gloved hands for a moment. What did he ask again?

"We came here from Atlanta, just visiting the city."

He's skeptical. I don't blame him. Nobody visits Baltimore. He might as well voice the giant, what the fuck out loud because while it's true, we are visiting; it still does make us look incredibly suspicious.

While he writes something down on the paper he has with him, I take one last look at the house. I want to tell him so badly of the man inside. The body they won't recover but the bones they might. But I'm having trouble trusting anyone right now. I don't trust cops, I don't trust anyone in uniform. And after what I've just seen, my fear of a larger conspiracy warrants my caution.

"I want to go with them," I tell the guy. Pat, I think he said his name was.

"Yeah of course," he says. I look at him one last time, having trouble meeting his gaze. I've never met someone with different colored eyes. That must have been interesting growing up with. One green and the other brown. Bizarre.

I climb into the ambulance where they've left one spot on the bench for me to sit on. Liberty moves her head to one side where I catch a glimpse of tears streaming down the side of her face and into her clothes.

The main dude attending to her tells me she might have fractured her leg. Maybe both of them. They're not sure yet. I stare at Liberty's legs as I'm made aware of this. Fucking bitch rammed the car into her. She didn't do anything to deserve this.

As I recluse into myself, rage building inside of me, I can't help but wonder what kind of person kills their husband and then sets fire to hide it? And why now? What changed. Did they know about us being here in Baltimore, looking for Stewart? I lean forward, pressing my elbows into my knees and cupping my nose and mouth with my palms.

"She'll be okay," red shirt guy tells me from across Liberty's suffering body.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

When we get to the hospital, they roll Liberty into emergency. I grab her things and walk in after the rush of ER staff. My place for now is the waiting room where I'm given a clipboard with a form on it.

I can't get past the first empty box though. I scribble down Liberty in my slanted handwriting that never really changed past fifth grade. I don't know her second name. I try remembering if she'd mentioned it at all but nothing comes up.

How did I not catch her whole name? I stare down the corridor at the two panels of glass on the doors that divide this side of the department from the other. The fluorescents have got me feeling fucked up. There are people rushing back and forth, giving me a whiplash. 

I try taking a deep breath. Those are supposed to help, right? I lean back in my seat where the bones in my lower spine crack loud enough for me to hear.

Somewhere, many neighborhoods away, fire fighters are putting out a fire that was started deliberately. Where a man, even in death, couldn't be left alone. A wife killed her husband and tried covering it up. I am very aware of the photos in my phone, the only proof of what I saw left of Stewart and the culprits behind it.

I partially expect the police to come barging in, telling me they've found Stewart's scorched remains. That he was the only identifiable object in the rubble left behind. I expect them to rush me with questions on our possible involvement. I mean, I wouldn't blame them if they thought we were suspicious looking. Hell, I feel suspicious of myself right now, with everything I've seen and heard.

Or maybe they'll waste time in identifying him. Even then, they might not even reveal it was in fact Stewart who was found in the fire. And maybe I'll drop dead before any sort of conclusion is drawn and the world will keep moving, spinning like nothing ever happened. Stamp the incident as a freak accident. A faulty wire. A gas leak. At this point, I'll believe anything because this had all been planned. His wife knew exactly where to find her dead husband and had no problem ramming a car into Liberty, possibly shattering her legs. These things don't just happen. 

Maybe I owe it to the gazillion movies I've watched over the span of my short life to question everything I see. But what I didn't expect was to actually use any of it in real life. Maybe real life isn't too far stretched from fiction. 

I take the clipboard back to the lady at the desk. She already looks pissed. So when I tell her I can't fill this form out correctly because I don't know Liberty's full name, she snags it away from me and her scowl deepens. 

I walk back to the dark blue padded chairs that smell like a carpet store and prepare for what I imagine would be, the longest night I'll have in a while.