The Not So Famous Outlaw Frank Wright

  Chapter One - Birth of the Not So Famous Outlaw

  The following happened in the nineteen-nineties. In a world where phones didn’t have cameras, and people didn’t carry phones around. The twin towers still stood in New York. People walked in the sun and trusted each other. Maybe, it was an illusion. Maybe, it was real. Who can say?

  A man was wearing Levi jeans, a dark Tee-shirt with a pocket, Everlast running shoes and a baseball cap that had an American flag on it. He moved through the empty parking lot. It was just after dusk. A horn blew. The loud repeated sounds broke through the buzzing of city noises. Behind the man headlamps jumped and flicked. The urgency of the situation was intensified by the continued trumpeting of the car’s horn. It all happened in an instant.

  The railings separating the parking lot from the highway bent and strained with the trucks impact. Welded pipe and concrete were uprooted as a stolen vehicle plowed forward. The trucks front right tire stayed behind, but that didn’t lessen the impact much. He was crushed, and everything fell away. These were the last memories he had before the beeping of the hospital monitors took over his world.

  Four hours later and slightly more than one thousand miles away another event was taking place. A firetruck and two York County Sheriff’s cars were in view behind a young woman with too much makeup and heavy hairspray. But they weren’t the only law there, nor were they the only people watching the events unfold.

  She received the on-air hand signal to go. The newscaster spoke in her best reporter voice, “The York County Fire Department was responding to the report of a fire when tragic events unfolded tonight. A young woman in her late twenties to early thirties was found unresponsive in a barn by the Fire Department. That fire was no longer burning upon their arrival. Emergency medical personnel were on scene, but the young woman could not be revived. The York County Sheriff's Department is requesting information on the woman’s identity and the identity of a possible witness reported to be in the area. The witness is believed to be an adult male, Caucasian, mid-thirties. The Sheriff Department requests that all tips and information be phoned in using a non-emergency number. Back to you.”

  A man in a dark suit and slicked back hair replied, “Tragic events. So, she has not been identified. Do we know if her death was due to the fire?”

  She did not want to reply with a yes or a no. She thought quickly to give herself a few more seconds of airtime, but she had to be careful. She had information the police didn’t want released. She said, “As of now, she has not been identified. They are hoping for more information as they search the area. The cause of death has not been determined. Smoke and fire can’t be ruled out at this time.” She almost shuttered as she recalled the pool of blood she glimpsed around the young woman’s head.

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  A man in a dark suit interjected, “Yes, it is indeed a tragedy. Now for the weather....”

  A thousand miles away from the barn, a large man was speaking into a payphone. It was on the outside of the emergency room lobby. He was speaking to an accomplished young woman. She was over one thousand miles away, but it was a different thousand miles. She was hearing about the attempt on the man’s life and speaking about the death of a young woman. He spoke sharply, but his anger was not directed at her. He finished with, “This is not a coincidence.”

  The young woman replied, “Of course It’s not. But we can’t help her right now. He’s still alive, and he needs to stay that way.”

  He answered with, “He’ll send someone else, and the police think it was an accident.”

  Her words were low, soft and determined, “You two have friends. The kind that will help. Don’t worry about the cost. I have money. You won’t see me until you do. Watch your backside, Big Guy.” She hung up.

  Thirty minutes from the barn, a woman in her early twenties sat on the end of a bed. The man was gone now. The cash he left her wasn’t worth the price of what they had done for her to get it. But it was a price she was used to paying. It was a means to an end, and the pills along with the act eased the pain. A pain that would return when the pills were gone.

  Her hair was green, and her eyes and lips were painted dark. Everything she owned was in a black knapsack by her feet. The television flickered. Tears formed in her eyes. Her hands shook. This time it wasn’t from withdrawals. An empty eyed newscaster had finished speaking about a tragedy. Her breathing grew rapid. In anger, hurt and desperation, she lurched for a phone. She did not know any drug that would fix what she had done.

  Around one hundred and fifty miles away, as the crow flies, a woman in her early thirties answered a telephone. The conversation had been brief. She spent most of it absolving herself of guilt or blame. She said things like, “You’re the one who was there.” or “You know, Daddy lies.”

  This conversation brought no comfort or solace to the green haired woman. Neither one thought to tell their mother about the death of her daughter. Somehow, they both knew they would not have to tell their father. The green haired woman moved one step closer to completely giving up. She hung up the phone before the other woman finished speaking.

  In the lobby of a hospital a doctor spoke to a large man. He said, “He’s stable for now. My nurse said she can’t find his next of kin...”

  The big man cut him off and said, “She was murdered last night. Your nurse will get a fax from someone with the power of attorney within the next thirty minutes.” This statement stunned the doctor. He wondered if that was true. He hadn’t heard about any murders? The big man then told the doctor about several things that were going to happen. The doctor grew uncomfortable. He was usually the one giving orders.

  Time passed.

  An older woman whose hair had once been a glorious red arranged a burial. The church had provided people, but she was the sole attendee. She had told no one about this day. Shame had not allowed her to speak. Besides, she had gotten the news. Everyone who cared for her daughter was dead. Sorrow soaked into her sole as her hair grew whiter with each passing day. All three of her girls were lost to her now. Maybe, this was her burden to bear.

  More time passed. All seemed quiet. Maybe, this was an illusion. Maybe, this was real. Who can say?