Chapter 5: Baiting the Trap

Chapter 5: Baiting the Trap

Sunday dawned with a deceptive calm. The sky was a vast, cloudless blue, and the neighborhood was settling into its lazy weekend rhythm. For Jake, however, the tranquility was a façade. Beneath his calm exterior, his nerves were thrumming with a high-tension current. Today was not a day of rest. It was a day of performance, and the stage was his front lawn.

After a perfunctory breakfast with Sarah, where he answered her gentle questions with deliberately vague monosyllables, he headed for the garage. His sanctuary felt different this morning. It was no longer just a workshop; it was an armory. In the center of the floor, next to his push mower, sat the painted gas can. It didn't look like a bomb. It looked like any other gas can. That was the beauty of it.

He wheeled the mower out into the bright morning sun. The air was cool, carrying the scent of cut grass from a neighbor's earlier efforts. He played his part perfectly, going through the familiar motions of a man preparing for a chore. He checked the oil. He cleared a few stray twigs from the mower deck. Then, he walked back to the garage and picked up the can of ‘Rotten Egg Gas’.

It felt heavy in his hand, a solid, five-gallon promise of mechanical carnage. He walked back to the mower, his heart beginning a low, steady drumbeat against his ribs. This was the first critical moment. He had to appear completely natural. He unscrewed the cap, the foul, chemical scent of his creation a private warning. He tipped the can, pretending to fill the mower's small tank, letting just enough of the concoction splash in to sell the illusion. Then he screwed the cap back on, his movements casual and unhurried.

He pulled the starter cord, and the engine sputtered to life with a reluctant cough. He began to mow, pushing the machine in long, straight lines across the front yard. Each pass took him closer to the street, closer to the house where his targets were undoubtedly sleeping off a night of cheap beer and stolen opportunities. He was acutely aware of every curtained window, every passing car. He was on display, the diligent homeowner, the unsuspecting victim.

After ten minutes of this charade, it was time. In the middle of a pass near the end of his driveway, he let the mower cough, sputter, and die. He gave the starter cord a few frustrated, theatrical pulls. He grunted, shook his head, and then did what any man interrupted mid-chore might do. He left the mower where it was and set the gas can down on the grass, just a few feet from the sidewalk. It was conspicuous, but not staged. It looked forgotten. An afterthought.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow—real sweat, born of adrenaline, not exertion—and walked back inside the house. The cool, quiet interior was a shock after the noise and sun. Sarah was in the living room, curled on the sofa with a book and a cup of tea.

"Giving up so soon?" she asked, a gentle tease in her voice. She looked up from her book, her warm eyes searching his face. "Are you feeling alright, Jake? You were so tense last night after we got back from Mom's."

Here was the second test, more difficult than the first. Lying to Sarah felt like grinding gears in a brand-new transmission. It was just wrong.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, forcing a casual tone. "Just got hot all of a sudden. Figured I'd take a water break and finish it up later."

"Well, don't leave your new gas can sitting out there," she said, her voice laced with an innocent, practical concern that twisted the knife of his deception. "After what happened yesterday…"

"I won't. Just catching my breath," he said, turning toward the kitchen. "I'll grab it in a minute."

He didn't grab it. He poured a glass of water, his hand steady despite the pounding in his chest. From the kitchen, he had a perfect, oblique view through the living room window. He could see the red can, a vibrant beacon of temptation sitting on the green grass. The bait was in the water. Now, the fisherman had to wait.

The minutes stretched into an hour. The sun climbed higher, beating down on the abandoned mower and the solitary can. Jake pretended to read the Sunday paper at the kitchen table, but the words were a meaningless jumble. His entire being was focused on that small patch of his front yard. Every car that slowed, every pedestrian that walked by, sent a jolt through his system. What if a kid picked it up? What if some other neighbor, thinking they were being helpful, brought it to the door? The variables were a torment.

Sarah eventually went upstairs to take a shower, leaving him alone with his vigil. The house was quiet save for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of pipes groaning. He moved to the living room window, peering through the gap in the curtains like a sniper in his nest. The street was quiet. The cousins' rust-bucket Cavalier sat silent and immobile.

Doubt began to creep in, a cold, unwelcome guest. Maybe they weren't that stupid. Maybe seeing him retrieve the can last night had actually scared them straight. The thought was infuriating. The idea that they might learn their lesson so easily, without paying the price he had so carefully prepared, was unacceptable. His eighty dollars, the ruined Saturday, the sheer disrespect—it all demanded a more tangible form of justice.

The afternoon bled away. The sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the lawn. The air grew cooler. Sarah came downstairs, dressed to run a few errands.

"You never finished the lawn," she noted, grabbing her keys.

"I'll get to it," he said, his eyes still fixed on the window. "Don't worry."

She hesitated, sensing his distraction. "Jake, whatever it is with my cousins… just let it go. They're not worth the energy."

He just nodded, unable to form a reply. She sighed, gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, and left. The front door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the deepening twilight. The world outside was bathed in the soft, hazy light of dusk—the perfect time for shadows to move unnoticed.

And then, he saw it.

Movement.

The front door of the grandparents' house creaked open. Randy Jenkins slipped out, his wiry frame hunched, his head on a swivel. He looked up and down the empty street, a predator testing the air. A moment later, his larger, slower cousin Billy emerged, standing behind him like a dim-witted bodyguard.

Jake’s breath caught in his throat. His heart, which had been a steady drum, began to pound like a piston about to throw a rod.

They exchanged a few words, their gestures quick and furtive. Then, as Billy stood lookout, his bulky form failing entirely to be inconspicuous, Randy darted across the street. He moved in a low, scuttling run, his feet barely making a sound on the asphalt. He was a rat drawn to a piece of poisoned cheese.

Jake didn't move a muscle. He was a statue carved from pure, vindictive anticipation.

Randy reached the edge of the lawn. He snatched the can, his movements jerky and nervous. He didn't even hesitate. The weight of the five gallons of toxic brew almost pulled him off balance. He clutched it to his chest like a stolen treasure and scurried back across the street, disappearing with Billy back inside the house.

A slow, cold smile spread across Jake’s face. It was a smile of absolute triumph. From his window, he watched the empty patch of grass where the can had been. The stage was now empty. The performance was over.

They took it. The fools actually took it.

The trap had been sprung. All that was left to do now was wait for the beautiful, symphony of sputtering, coughing, and catastrophic engine failure.