Pulling away from the apartment, Danny said to Butch, “Hey, take a right here on Doris. I wanna see if Pastor Pate and Whitney are at the church.”
Butch turned the wheel and headed toward the church just as Danny requested. Nearly two years had come to pass since he left town and the idea of seeing Pastor Pate again now excited him. Danny scanned the side courtyard and playground in anticipation. Butch’s truck was turning the corner when Danny saw Whitney, the long-time child care assistant, holding the door open and an army of children rushing out past her. Danny quickly leaned to his left and watched Whitney in the side mirror. His eyes grew wide with horror then hollered, “Stop! Stop the truck!”
Butch, surprised by the shout, screamed with a short, “Augh!” and jumped in his seat. He stiffened his arms and slammed on the brakes, coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the street. Danny’s ironing board flew over the cab and landed on the hood, making a long, white scratch in the black paint before falling to the ground in front of the truck.
“What was that?” Butch asked angrily. “Geez! We probl’y broke half the stuff.”
Danny remained transfixed on the mirror and Whitney’s reflection.
“Hey. You okay?” Butch inquired, calming down a bit. “I’m sorry I snapped at you—”
“Whitney,” Danny stated bluntly, interrupting. “That’s Whitney Taylor.”
Butch tried to look over his right shoulder to see.
“She’s been Pastor Pate’s assistant since I came here in ’86,” Danny explained.
“Cute,” Butch complimented as he watched the reflection of the young woman tossing a child in her arms. “You talk to her?”
“No,” Danny sighed. “But I saw her almost every day on my way home from Charlie’s. ’Cept I never really saw her like this, though.”
“Like what?”
“Well, look at her, man!” Danny snapped. “She’s a Betty! I guess I’ve always thought of her as just a kid.”
“So what’s wrong?” Butch asked, taking another look.
Danny slumped back in his seat, closed his eyes, and said, “She has a fold.”
“She does? What color is it?”
Danny spoke not a word.
“Red?” he asked with a lift in his voice.
Again, Danny spoke not a word.
“So what do we do?” Butch asked anxiously, his eyes fixed on Whitney. “What do we do about this?”
Danny shrugged his shoulders, staring at the roof of the truck.
“What I guess I should be asking is…what are you gonna do about this?” he rephrased leadingly. “Whatever it is you got, you got it. So let’s learn how to fix it.” Butch quickly threw the truck in reverse and began backing up to the church fence.
“What’re ya doin’?’ Danny said, springing to life. “Hey! C’mon!”
“I’m helpin’ you help her!” Butch answered with a smile. He stopped in front of the brick and wrought-iron fence, turned off the ignition, and grinned at Danny.
“Don’t you dare get outta this truck!” Danny warned as Butch unfastened his seat belt, opened the door, and climbed out.
“Butch! Butch!” he heard Danny hiss at him as he passed in front of the truck, finishing off with, “Cleo!” He stopped, frowned, and made the “shame-shame” finger gesture then stepped onto the sidewalk near the gate. “‘Scuse me! Miss?” he called out to Whitney, waving his badge. “Miss, can I have a word with you?”
Whitney, along with Franklin and several other children, started walking toward the fence.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Butch said to her politely. “I’m Detective Butch Farley and this is my friend…Danny Lee Albright.” He pointed to the truck cab behind him. Danny, failing to see the humor in the situation, put on his dark glasses and looked straight ahead.
“You two know each other?” Butch asked innocently, placing his badge in his rear pocket.
“Well, I wouldn’t say we know each other,” Whitney explained, looking at Danny through the iron-fence braces, “but we certainly know of each other.” She smirked. “What’s he done? I always knew that someday I’d see him in police custody.”
“Oh, he hasn’t really done anything worth being arrested for,” Butch explained with a small chuckle, “or at least none that I’m aware of, but uh—”
“Why do ya got your glasses on?” Whitney asked loudly, interrupting Butch.
“Sorry?” Danny replied, not really hearing what she said over the sound of the children playing.
“Did you know in all the time I been here I ain’t never seen him without those weird-lookin’ glasses?” she discreetly informed Butch. “Do you ever take ’em off?” she again hollered to Danny.
“I don’t always wear ’em!” Danny protested from the safety of his seat.
“Yeah!” Butch agreed with Whitney, nodding his head. “You’re always wearing those glasses! Why don’t you take ’em off a while?” He smiled coaxingly, motioning for Danny to join him. “C’mon!”
Danny reluctantly exited the truck cab and slowly stepped up to the fence.
“Please?” Whitney asked seductively. “I bet you got pretty eyes!”
They waited for Danny, who, after much deliberation, finally succumbed to the pressure.
“All right,” he agreed sheepishly. “But I don’t always wear ’em!” He lowered his head slightly and removed the glasses.
“There!” Butch commended patronizingly with a pat on Danny’s shoulder and a wink to Whitney. “Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”
“No, it wasn’t hard! Cleo!” Danny elbowed his friend before raising his head.
Whitney bit her lower lip as she and Danny locked eyes. He tried to hold back the warm smile he felt spreading across his lips.
“See? I told you, you had nice eyes!” she professed, blushing.
“Miss Taylor,” Butch interrupted, “would it be possible to have a word with you for a moment?” Whitney didn’t hear a thing. “Miss Taylor!” he repeated, raising his voice.
“Oh! Sure!” she answered happily, breaking the staring contest. She lightly hopped away as if skipping on air.
Danny playfully slapped and punched Butch while waiting for Whitney. The two boxers stopped their horseplay just as Whitney, with Franklin in tow, rounded the fence corner. She walked straight up to Danny and gazed deeply. He leaned back slightly, uncomfortable with her direct attention. “What’re you doing?”
“I was just wantin’ to see your pretty eyes up close,” she answered enticingly, just above a whisper.
Franklin leaned out from behind her, pointed at Danny, and began teasing, “Pretty eyes! Pretty eyes!”
“Franklin, would you mind watchin’ the kids for a while?” she requested with a laugh, turning him away with a pat on the shoulder.
Franklin turned around, pointed, and again taunted, “Pretty-eyed Danny! Pretty-eyed Danny.”
Danny lunged toward Franklin with a growl and clenched his fists, sending him off squealing with childish delight.
“Miss Taylor,” Butch politely stated as he extended his hand, “nice to meet you. Thanks for speaking to us. I have just a few routine questions.”
“Oh, sure! I don’t mind talkin’. But uh…” she paused and did a quick double take at Danny. “I don’t understand what this has to do with him.”
“Well…” Butch started out, but hesitated to finish his answer. He shifted his eyes to Danny, shrugged, and held his hands up. “There’s a sensitive and unusual situation in which we are involved,” he informed her. He gently grasped Whitney by her right arm and began walking with Danny following silently behind them. As Butch elaborated on the circumstances of their visit, Danny reached out and swiped his hand through the bright-red fold hovering above Whitney’s right shoulder.
Danny’s knees buckled. His eyes rolled back in his head as he fell to the ground; his body curled up, contorted by the violent seizure. Images of Whitney, Brooke, and the three murdered girls bombarded his mind. Wild explo
sions of light, flesh, and blood coursed through his brain as adrenaline, fear, and pain raced through his heart. Panic stricken and unsure of how to help, Whitney stood on her toes, screaming.
“Danny! Danny, come on! It’s me! Get out of it!” Butch calmly coached as he tried to restrain his flailing arms, “Danny! Get out of it!”
Whitney screamed again. The children on the church playground, having been alerted to the situation, rushed the fence.
“What’s wrong with him?” she fearfully asked. The corralled and shocked children remained quiet as they watched. Danny’s body gradually slowed down its series of tensions. He suddenly opened his eyes and looked wildly about.
“That’s it! That’s it!” Butch smiled, comforting his friend. “Here we are…it’s okay…you’re all right”
With tears welling up in his eyes, Danny grunted, “It’s her! She’s next.”
“What?” Whitney asked, still reeling from witnessing Danny’s seizure.
“Who does she look like?” Danny asked between shallow breaths, trying to regain his composure.
Butch stared at Whitney in disbelief and mumbled, “Oh, my God!”
“Who do I look like?” she cried, horribly frightened. “The next what?”
Butch helped Danny to his feet.
“What was that?” Whitney asked, near hysterics. “What happened?”
“I need to talk to you,” Danny said softly as he stepped toward her.
“What is this?” she asked, looking to Butch for help or an answer. “No!” she growled as Danny delicately placed his hands on her biceps. “Stop it! Get away, you freak!” she loudly demanded and twisted free.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Danny explained, taking a step backward. “I’m sorry. I’m scared right now and I’ve been scared for a long time about a lot of things.”
Whitney looked over at Butch for some reassurance, then back to Danny as he continued.
“But if you give me just a few minutes of your time, listen, and have a little faith in me, then you’ll understand.”
Whitney looked deeply again into his eyes; a tiny smile crossed her lips. He smiled in return, placed his hands behind his back, and silently tilted his head twice toward the sidewalk. Whitney remained unmoved with her arms crossed. Butch winked at her and also nodded his head forward.
Danny and Whitney took their first few steps together, Butch followed close behind.
“I came here in 1986,” Danny started, looking around as he began narrating his life story. “I ran away from home.”
“What happened? Did ya do somethin’?” Whitney curiously asked.
“Well, yes and no,” he replied. “Somethin’ did happen, and I thought I was responsible. I felt like I did something wrong. And I never faced the truth or consequences of my actions.” He thought about the night of the wreck and Jessica lying on his lap, her cracked skull and blood running down onto his jeans.
Whitney watched as he stopped and closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and began breathing quickly through his nose. She turned back to Butch, who motioned for her to move toward Danny.
“Hey…it’s okay,” she softly whispered while ever so lightly placing her fingers on his arm. “Talk to me.” Just the touch of her hand sent a jolt of energy through his body, erasing Jessica’s bloodied face from his mind. He opened his eyes as Whitney gingerly curled her arm in his.
Danny resumed telling his story. “This all started back in 1978…”
Butch smiled as he chaperoned the young couple from a safe distance.
It was almost dark. The sun had set, but broad arcs of dark orange, red, and cinnamon separated the silhouetted horizon from the oncoming evening sky. The threesome decided to stop off at Pokey’s Diner for an early supper. The forty-something-year-old restaurant was empty, sans the trio. They sat in the last booth against the back wall directly across from the long service counter. They indulged themselves on oversized platters of hand-breaded chicken fried steak, black-eyed peas, fried okra, and jalapeño cornbread. Various shades of yellow- and white-incandescent ceiling lights washed the dining hall in a dull, creamy hue. The waist-high walls were covered with black- and pastel-colored tiles with bright, glossy red tiles interspersed.
Danny was giving his interpretation of the conversation with Butch at the pool hall two days prior. “I told ’im that I think whoever this jacked-up guy is, he’s still out there and he’s like, ‘You’re the one who’s jacked up!’”
Whitney laughed a bit as Danny continued.
“So that was the day before yesterday. Then, uh, yesterday this guy went to Sgt. Huddleston. A guy who’s hair hasn’t moved in thirty years and says, he says, uh…what did you say? I just heard a lot of yelling.”
Butch exited the booth and solemnly explained, “I just stood up, looked him in the eye, and told him, ‘He’s my friend, I trust him…we’re in love, we’re running away together, and I’m pregnant with his love child.”
Whitney and Danny laughed out loud for a moment with a lingering, flirtatious stare.
“So were you two like separated at birth?” she asked jokingly. “I mean, ya’ll act like ya’ll are brothers or something.’”
With a chuckle, Danny and Butch gave each other a quick look over and compared skin tones.
The table grew quiet as Whitney’s tender smile disappeared and she peered out the window. “Do you really think what you say you saw will actually happen?”
“I don’t know,” Danny offered with a shrug. “‘Cuz, uh, to tell you the truth…I’ve never interfered with whatever I’ve seen and—”
“What do you mean you never ‘interfered’?” she asked. “You knew when these people were gonna die and you never said anything to anyone?”
“What do you expect me to do?” Danny fired back, raising his voice. “I hadn’t told you a thing and you already called me a freak!”
Butch interrupted to calm the situation and placed his hand on Danny’s arm. “We don’t know if he can change or alter the outcome of his premonitions…whether they be on you or anyone else. So I’m sorry to say that you’re the test case for this idea. We’re both here to try to prevent anything from happening. Furthermore, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile as much as he has today.”
Whitney brightened up as Danny elbowed Butch in the rib.
“And if something did happen—” he continued.
“All right! All right!” Whitney interrupted, irritated. “I’m tired of hearing how I’m gonna be shot at the Piggly Wiggly by some idiot!” With a curled lip and nod of her head, she said, “If I’m gonna go, I wanna at least go without feeling any pain! I want a beer! You boys wanna beer?”
Both men simultaneously turned to the cashier, raised their hands, and bellowed, “Check please!”
SCARS IN THE HEART
W hitney, Butch, and Danny sat at a small, round cocktail table on the edge of the dance floor at Rinkydinks, the area’s version of a honky-tonk. Neon signs for Bud Light and George Straight illuminated the local watering hole while the patrons danced, played pool, darts, shuffle board, and tossed indoor horseshoes.
“So who do you think this is?’ Whitney hollered as she grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bucket in the middle of the table. “You been talking ’bout serial killers but I ain’t heard anything about any serial killers in Texas for a long time.”
“Well, this guy is obviously attracted to brunettes,” Butch elaborated, trying to talk over the noise. “You’re about the height and proportion and age as the first victim. All the victims were found with one bullet wound to the left side of their chest.” He, too, grabbed some of the peanuts.
Danny sat silently, drinking his beer, letting Butch do his job. As he listened to their conversation and looked about at the bar guests, he was pleasantly surprised to see mostly green and purple folds.
“There’ve been no signs of struggle, rape, bondage, or strangulation,” Butch added as he and Whitney continued de-shelling their peanuts. “T
hey weren’t drugged or chemically subdued. So more than likely, they knew him intimately, or had knowledge of who he was, and were also with or around him of their own free will.”
Leaning his chair back on two legs, Danny said, “Is he from around here?” His eyes were glued to a couple of young wannabe cowgirls dancing together. They held their beer bottles high as they hooped and hollered in front of the band members.
“Oh, yeah!” Butch confidently confirmed. “I’d say he lives no more than a hundred miles outta the metro. Travels a lot, too. A vendor or salesman or something. Maybe makes deliveries to the outlying towns with a courier service.”
Whitney looked at Danny and then turned around to see what had captured his attention. She watched the girls dancing together. A tiny sting of jealousy pierced her heart when she noticed a devilish grin cross Danny’s lips. With an obvious sigh loud enough to hear, she turned back to Butch with a toss of her long hair.
“He has to be going somewhere that’s easily accessible with the greatest variety possible,” Butch continued to theorize. “He’s got to find the one who has the look, the right look, like the first girl, Brooke.”
“That was her name?” she asked.
“Yep!” Danny interjected, turning his attention back to the conversation and lowering his chair. “She was his girlfriend.”
“He killed his own girlfriend? What a sicko jerk! Don’t men know that we women need to be treated tenderly? We’re not jus’ a tub of…of…sausage.”
Butch and Danny looked at one another as they listened to Whitney, noticing she was exhibiting signs of intoxication.
“So! Misser Lanny Dee Rallbight!” she said as she tucked her hair behind her right ear. “What do you do to your girlfriends?”
“Don’t have ‘girlfriend-zah,’” he smartly replied, “‘cuz I don’t have ah girlfriend. So pretty much don’t do anything!”
“No girlfriend?” she repeated as she peeled the label from her bottle. “You ain’t married, are ya?” She quickly flared up. “‘Cuz if ya are—”
The Folds Page 26