NIGHT MISSION by Sandra Tatara 
Published in Detective Mystery Stories #23 

The heavy garage door closed behind me with a thud, not that I actually heard it above my pounding heartbeat. My lungs burned. I fought to get my breathing under control. Alone in the darkness - in the stillness – listening for a sound that would tell me he had found me. 
The engine made small pinging noises as it came to a final rest. A series of clicks sounded from somewhere in the dashboard. Noises never noticed before. In the darkened clock space, I could almost hear the seconds ticking away. A slight scraping noise against the back outside wall…the tree branch I had been meaning to trim. I hoped that’s what it was. Breathing became easier and my heartbeat slowed to a less scary series of thumps. 
I eased open the door, hit the trunk release switch, and slid from the car seat. My knees buckled as I tried to stand. Inhale…exhale. Better. Closed the door and lifted two grocery bags from the trunk. Without turning on the light, I inched along beside the car to the small service door at the side of the garage. My hand shook as I unlocked the door and stepped into the safety of my home. 
Taking a deep breath, I checked the deadbolt lock. My Golden Retriever, Beggar, named for what he does best, sat in the shadows of the entrance foyer. In the faint curio cabinet light I could see a puzzled look on Beggar’s face. He followed me to the kitchen, sat and watched me quickly put away the perishable foods, leaving the rest for later. Beggar sniffed once or twice at the items in the bags and slid to the floor in disappointment. 
I hurried down the hall to the bedroom. In the glow of the nightlight, I fumbled to unlock the desk drawer, loaded my revolver, and placed it on the nightstand. Still in the dark, I crouched next to the window and pulled open the curtain just a bit. For several minutes I watched the street until I was convinced he had given up trying to find me. Taking no chances of alerting him by turning on the lamp, I pulled off my jeans and T-top in the dark. I retrieved the nightshirt that I’d thrown on the bed when my little night mission began, slipped it over my head, and crawled into bed. Beggar yawned and circled before settling next to me on the floor. 
* * * 
My husband, Roger, was out of town on a business trip and I usually don’t sleep well when he’s gone. Beggar, as mentioned - and loveable though he may be - isn’t great in the defense department. That’s one of the reasons Roger got me the Colt Revolver… to feel safe when he was gone. I took a gun safety class and became comfortable with it…for a while, and then locked it in its padded carrying case inside my desk drawer. Bullets were kept hidden behind all the paraphernalia in the bathroom closet. Some protection. 
I’d gone to bed about 11:00, tossed and turned, couldn’t sleep. Thought I would be able to, being so tired after cleaning the house in preparation for Saturday. Roger would be home tomorrow, Friday. Our newly married daughter, Cassie, her husband Todd, and our son, Ryan would all be over on Saturday for dinner. As I curled up in bed and watched the illuminated green numbers on the clock tick away the night, the thought occurred to me I might as well get up and… And what? The only thing left to do was grocery shop. The grocery store is open twenty-four hours. I suppose there must be people who shop at night. I truly never wondered about who or why. 
It suddenly seemed like a good idea - shop while it would certainly be less crowded and get it out of the way. What if I get there and find there are lots of people who shop at night? An intriguing thought. 
I jumped out of bed, tugged on jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed my purse, and hurried out to the garage leaving a slightly bewildered dog sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor with a frown on his face. 
No, there wasn’t a crowd of people in the grocery store - only a few employees, a young man with purple spiked hair, a nose ring and crosses hanging from both ears, and...me. What do guys with purple hair and nose rings shop for at one o’clock in the morning? I tried to be discreet as I peaked into his cart: three liter bottles of Pepsi, Twinkies, Hostess Cupcakes, bar-b-que potato chips, beer. And resting on top was a bouquet of flowers in shiny cellophane wrapping. Ah! Must have a girlfriend. Wonder what color hair she has. 
It’s kind of nice shopping all alone. No screaming kids pushing carts into my heels. Whoops! Better be careful. Starting to sound like one of the “get off my lawn” crabby old ladies. If it weren’t for Purple Hair, I might feel like a celebrity and the store stayed open just for me to shop without being hounded by my admiring public. Better finish this shopping and get some sleep for your feeble mind. 
By the time I scratched off the last item on my list and wheeled my cart into the checkout lane, Purple Hair had left. 
The cashier snapped her gum and slid my groceries through the scanner without glancing up. Her hair looked like she’d just gotten up from a nap. Guess you don’t have to worry about how your hair looks for this shift. 
“This is the first time I’ve shopped at night. Is it always this empty?” My voice seemed to echo in the quiet store. 
“Yep, most of the time.” She blew a big pink bubble with her gum, popped it, and grinned. “Though sometimes it gets real busy, maybe three, four people at a time.” 
I nodded and slid my credit card through the machine. 
“Paper or plastic?” she inquired. 
“Paper, please.” 
While I signed my name to the credit slip, she packed my groceries. 
Bubble Gum returned my card, my receipt, and said, “Have a good evening now, honey.” 
“Thanks. You too.” 
I quickly tucked the two grocery bags in my trunk, feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable in the night. As I pulled from the parking lot, a shadow moved against the back wall near the dumpster. A quick glance showed a hunched figure rummaging through the trash. I shivered and pulled onto the street, anxious to get home. 
Can’t recall ever noticing how still it was at night. Not just quiet, but still. A crispness had seized the air, and I fumbled with the heat control. I turned onto Burnham Avenue where it runs through the forest preserves and past God-Only-Knows-What’s-Buried-There Lake. I don’t even know if it’s actually a lake or just a swamp - or if it has a name - but that’s my name for it. In the steamy summertime, the water has a strange sheen and an indescribable stench. It’s amazing to see someone fishing there during the day. Who would ever want to eat any fish that came out of that lake? I always tell Roger that’s where the Mob dumps bodies. He says I watch too much TV and read too many detective novels. 
I rarely encounter many cars on this road and its one of the reasons its so enjoyable. More often than not, I see deer and people riding horses, though at this hour I didn’t expect either. So it startled me to see someone – at almost two a.m. - parked off on the gravel shoulder next to the lake. 
Lit only by a full moon, a dark colored Ford Explorer snuggled in the shadows. My headlights flashed against the vehicle as I made the turn. A tall burly man jerked in apparent surprise at the intrusion. Dressed all in dark clothing with a baseball cap covering a mop of shaggy hair, he struggled to lift something out of his SUV. His head snapped around at my approaching lights. Just as quickly, he turned his face away and shoved his body against whatever it was he struggled with. 
As I completed my turn and drove by, I saw a large dark bundle tied with rope. The man appeared agitated, spun around as if looking for other traffic. I drove past and picked up speed. 
My remarks to Roger about bodies in the lake flashed into my mind. Too many mystery movies, huh? I drove on, glancing in my rearview mirror. Suddenly feeling like the female PI’s in my favorite novels, I hung a right, found the first driveway, and turned around. Grabbing the notepad and pen from my visor, I headed back toward the lake with my window partially down, listening to the night. A bullfrog croaked just before the sounds of crunching gravel and a splash cut through the stillness. Slowing as I approached the parked Explorer to let my lights rest on the license plates, I jotted down the number. In a slithering wisp of fog that crept past my car, I didn’t see the stalking figure as he approached. Just in time, I heard the heavy footfalls in the gravel and hit the power window switch as he lunged toward my door. The moonlight showed me angry eyes, broad shoulders and arms like tree trunks. 
My pulse raced in an adrenalin rush. I dropped the notepad, hit the gas, and spun back onto the road. In my mirror I saw him hesitate briefly before running toward his car. I pressed harder on the accelerator trying to put as much distance between us. Only seconds elapsed before the huge Explorer spit its high beams through my back window. 
Fighting against the rising panic in my throat, I tugged my seat belt tighter, and floored the gas pedal. He fell back slightly before hitting the gas. The bright lights sped toward me with terrifying speed. My god, he’s going to ram my car. My smaller vehicle maneuvered better than the bulky Ford. I made a quick right turn into my subdivision. The pavement was slippery in the misty night air and he slid as he took a curve too fast. Hoping he didn’t know the area as well as I did, I zigzagged through the sleeping community with one eye on the mirror. Brakes squealed as he slowed to match my turns. 
His headlights hadn’t been visible for the last three turns; giving me hope that I’d lost him somewhere on the several cul-de-sacs and a dead end street I’d led him past. 
I drove on, through the maize-like streets, inching closer to home. Passed my house once and circled the block. No headlights in any direction. On the next pass I killed my lights and spun into my driveway, punching the garage door opener as I turned. 
* * * 
I snuggled under the comforter. Beside me Beggar snored in peaceful bliss. My feet felt like ice-cubes and every once in a while my heart missed a beat and then made up for it with extra beats seconds later. Hope I didn’t survive that run-in only to die of a heart attack in my own bed. I wondered if Sharon McCone or Kinsey Millhone in my mystery novels suffered these attacks of nerves. Might be a good idea to switch to romance novels for a while; give my imagination a rest. 
I tired to coax myself into a deep sleep, but my conscience poked its way around my brain cells. Aren’t you going to do something? Call someone? A man probably dumped a body in that lake. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I argued with the voice. What if he got MY license number; saw my face? I could be the next addition in the lake. The struggle continued until exhaustion claimed me and I fell into a restless sleep. 
Morning nudged me awake with streaming sunlight through the window and Beggar’s cold nose against my arm. On the mornings that I could sleep late, and late for me was seven o’clock, I loved to roll over to my right side and enjoy the burning sunshine flooding through the window. Wondered about the danger from the magnified rays through the glass and if I needed a sun block. But it was worth the risk for the sensual pleasure of the warmth against my skin. 
I opened one eye, glanced at the clock. Seven fifty-six. In the light of day, the sight of the revolver on the nightstand and my suspicions seemed melodramatic. I pushed the switch on my radio and listened to the last lines of a song my brain couldn’t place. The station tone announced the hour and the news report began. 
Words suddenly pushed aside my fog. “And the parents of a twenty-year U of I college student just home for summer break still cling to the hope the their daughter will be found unharmed…” I listened to the description of the girl who had been reported missing by her friends after she’d called to report car trouble. Arriving to find the car door open, her purse on the front seat, and their friend nowhere around, they called her parents. It had been two days without a word. 
I lay in bed, unable to find any warmth beneath the fluffy comforter. The dichotomy of my night’s adventure and the serene morning sunshine churned in my gut. 
In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and searched the eyes in the mirror. What if…? He was probably only dumping garbage. But, what if? 
I dried my face, sat on the edge of the bed, and dialed the police department. 
THE END 
Copyright 2001 by Sandra Tatara