Disclaimer: Everything canon belongs to S.E. Hinton

Title: Suicide Special

Summary: All Tim knows is that when he went to bed last night, there was no gun, and when he wakes up this morning, it's there, under his pillow, as if left by some murderous toothfairy.

Rating: Strong T.

Notes: Thanks for taking the time to read! Please drop a review!

Prologue

Tim's not quite sure who to blame for this mess.

Hell, he's not even sure what kind of mess he's in. All Tim knows is that when he went to bed last night, there was no gun, and when he wakes up this morning, it's there, under his pillow, as if left by some murderous toothfairy.

All in all, not the best situation to be in, he muses, staring at the small handgun he's sure he's never seen before in his life. He goes to pick it up, thinks better of it, and walks to his closet. He rifles around before finding anything even remotely suitable, and returns to his bed with a pair of old, blue, boxers. Wrapping his hand, careful about his fingers especially, in the boxers, he lifts the rifle up to examine it.

How the hell did I not wake up? True, eventually he did wake up due to the bulky, hard shape beneath his admittedly flimsy pillow, but he would have thought it would wake him when whatever shit-stain who did this put it there.

He checks the barrel, and, well, fuck. Either the owner of this gun didn't know how to clean it properly, or it had been fired recently, and shoved beneath his pillow soon after. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck.

Tim curses under his breath, a barrage of insults so colorful and creative it may even raise Curly's eyebrows. Hell, he doesn't even know if half of what he's saying are actual words, or just strings of dirty-sounding syllables.

But that won't due.

He sets the gun, still wrapped in the boxers, back down where it was, and rummages around his room before finding something to put it in. It's an old shoe box that Angela and Curly painted for him for his birthday one year, when they had less money than the non existent amount they usually had. It was green and black and had his name in blocky letters, and inside they'd put some old family pictures and notes and five dollars. Tim has since moved the pictures and notes to a nicer box they swiped for him for his most recent birthday, and he spent the five dollars on dinner and a movie for a girl who, quite frankly, wasn't worth it. Even so he held onto the box, for sentimentality if nothing else, not that he'd ever admit that. Maybe some part of him always knew the day would come when a crazed madman put a gun beneath his pillow.

Of course, now that he's got the gun in the box, he doesn't know what to do with it.

If someone is framing him, he can't leave it here. The police will tear through, find it recently fired and wrapped in his underwear, and it doesn't matter what he says, they're sure as shit not gonna believe it just magically turned up there. After all, an excuse to lock him up is probably what every damn cop in Tulsa is waiting for.

But he can't exactly carry it around with him- at twelve and ten, Curly and Angela's taste in paint wasn't exactly subtle and nobody is gonna ignore him walking around with a lime green shoe box. And even if he finds something else to keep it in, he ain't gonna look any less conspicuous, walking around with it.

But if he can't leave it, and he sure as hell can't take it with him, that leaves one option.

He's gotta ditch it.

Of course, it ain't that simple; Tim's seen some things, but magical guns that appear and disappear like air ain't something he believes. Somebody put it there, and he's guessing their reason was less than upstanding. And when he finds out who it is, he's gonna knock every single one of their teeth out, then shove em down their throat so they can choke on em.

First things first, he's gotta find a different container for it. One without his name on it in big, black letters. Then he can find a temporary place to ditch it just until he figures things out.

He gets ready quickly and nervously, checking over his shoulder as he showers and dresses and greases his hair. Part of him feels like he ought to stop wasting time, part of him knows that acting and looking normal is the only way to sell this. He uses some cologne; another gift Angela didn't pay for, and, when he feels like himself, he turns to face the box.

He picks it up carefully, almost like he's afraid it'll go off. He realizes then he doesn't know if the gun has any bullets, but hell if he can check without getting his fingerprints on it. He listens at the door before stepping into the hallway. Silence is a dead giveaway that nobody is home. It's all but scientific fact that two or more Shepherds in the same building will be fighting loudly as soon as they realize the other is there. And, given it's ten in the morning, his mother and stepfather will probably be at work, and his siblings, well… He doesn't know where Curly is, but he's willing to bet it isn't school, and Angela is likely off playing house with her dopey husband.

He takes the box down to the kitchen, finds a garbage bag, and, as carefully as he can, moves the boxer-wrapped gun from the box to the bag. He double-knots it, grabs his keys, and carries it carefully outside. Thankfully, he's got Michael's car for as long as Michael is in jail, which, given his track record, could be some time. He places the bag on the passenger seat, starts the car, and then wonders where the hell he's gonna go.

He rules out the police pretty quick. His friends are next- the ones he trusts he doesn't want too wrapped up in things, and the others, well… somebody got that thing under his pillow. Buck's is a no-go. He shakes his head. He's just gotta hide it, temporarily. A few hours at best, a few days or a week at worse. Then he'll find some way to get rid of it more permanently.

He thinks of a place pretty quick; about a mile outside of town there's this old building that used to be a rest station for the pony express or some shit like that. For the past hundred some-odd years, it hasn't really had a legal use. It's too known as a good hideout to actually be a good hideout, but for a short stint…

He drives there quickly, checking like a madman in the mirror to make sure he ain't being followed. Unless the devil himself is after him, he makes it out of town and to the field the building is in okay.

The station is old and crumbling, the inside littered with beer cans and broken bottles, cigarette butts and, he notes with both mild disgust and mild admiration, a girl's panties. The floor is wood, but missing large pieces. He kicks at the exposed dirt- not as pliable as he'd hoped, but better than ditching it outside.

He finds a loose board by the front of building, in a shady spot to the left of the door frame, the door stolen for a bonfire years ago. He carefully pulls out the cheap, ancient nails holding it down and begins to work on digging a small, but deep, hole. His nails all crack in the process and he regularly has to break to scrape caked dirt off his fingers. Eventually the earth gets damp, and it's easier going.

When it's deep enough, he places the bag inside and covers it again- keeping the wet dirt at the bottom. He puts the boards back and slides the nails in; when one gets stuck he leans his knee on it, slowly shifting his weight until it sinks in. It hurts like a bitch, but it works. He spreads the dry, displaced dirt out in a smooth layer across the floor.

That, for now, will have to do. Right now, he's gotta figure out how the gun got to his house, and whose hands he's gotta break off for putting it there.

The drive back into town is as awful as the drive up, because his mind keeps flashing back to the damn gun. By the time he gets home, he's had to stop himself twice from heading back out to double check he hid it well.

He's gotta keep his head screwed on about this.

He washes his hands thoroughly, and hears the door open and slam shut.

"Tim?"

Ah, fuck.

Curly is back, and apparently wants something, Tim'll guess it's money or the car or something else dumb as shit that he has no time for.

"What D'ya want?" Tim calls down. He hear Curly loudly bound up the stairs, and in the next minute he all but slams into the door frame, a wild look in his eye.

"Did you hear?" he asks breathlessly.

"Curly, I ain't got time for gossipy shit-"

"No, no, nothing like that. Hey, listen- you know Carl Kralick?"

"Should I?"

"He's a polish guy who kind of runs with the Brumley Boys? Or maybe he's Hungarian. Shit, I don't know. Married Maureen Thompson, Angela's friend who I used to go with, guess she's Maureen Kralick now, or was-"

"You said it wasn't gossipy."

"It ain't, Tim. He's- somebody shot him! He's been murdered, and Maureen found the body..."

Curly's voice drones on, and Tim is only half-listening. Because for the hundredth time that day, all he can really think is oh, fuck.

Thanks for reading! If you made it this far, please drop a review! I'm always looking to improve and hear what you think.

I'm still working out the kinks with Tim's voice, but I figured if I waited till I perfected it, I'd never get this story up.

Also, quick note on firearm lingo, I'm not too up-and-up on everything (i.e. the differences between rifles and guns and pistols and what not), but I'm fairly certain an inexpensive handgun was referred to as either a suicide special or Saturday night special (while I believe SNS was more popular at the time, I think Suicide Special just has a better ring to it). If you notice any inaccuracy in that (or any) regard, please let me know!