Derailed

by Jackson Neta

  Chapter 19

  In spite of our stop at McDonald’s, we arrived at church early and Estelle disappeared while I made my way to our usual seats near the front on the left-hand side.

  I’d come to expect Easter at SouledOut—or Resurrection Sunday, as Mom called it—to be one of the most inspiring events of my year. And I was not disappointed. Estelle sat down beside me with an out-of-breath whoosh just as worship began with “Was It a Morning Like This?”—Jim Croegaert’s powerful song made famous several years ago by Sandi Patty. We continued by singing “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” and couldn’t stop when the music group led us in Ron Kenoly’s “Jesus Is Alive.”

  Once we’d quieted down a little, Sister Avis Douglass, our worship leader, said, “Last time we were together, Pastor Cobbs told us, ‘It may be Friday, but Sunday’s comin’!’ Well, brothers and sisters, I’m here to tell you, Sunday’s here, and Christ has risen!”

  In a thunderous response that shook our building like we were inside a bass drum, the congregation responded in unison, “He is risen indeed!”

  Then Sister Avis introduced our newly formed choir, which gave a heavy gospel rendition to Andrae Crouch’s classic, “The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power.” It was so powerful, a young sister started getting happy and the church Mothers had to gather around and fan her down. I was in the groove myself, thanking Jesus for his sacrifice, when the Holy Ghost pricked my heart with the words of the second verse, “It soothes my doubts and calms my fears . . .” Yes, yes. I’d been struggling with doubts and quaking with fears. I wasn’t too proud to admit that now.

  During all my years being a cop—facing drug dealers, getting shot at a couple times, careening through high-speed chases, and even doing that B-and-E on my old boss’s house to get the evidence against him—the adrenalin had carried me through and I hadn’t recognized fear . . . or maybe it was the alcohol I’d used to come down off of it that fogged my memory.

  But lately, with all these changes in my life, I’d come to know doubts and fears with no adrenalin to hold them at bay. It humbled me. I knew I needed Jesus in a way that was deeper than I’d ever acknowledged. I didn’t even try to wipe away the tears as I sang along, “ ‘It will never lose its power!’ Yes, yes! Thank you, Jesus. Oh, thank you again.”

  My eyes were still closed when I felt Estelle rise from the seat beside me. I looked up. Had Sister Avis asked us all to stand? No. It was just Estelle, and she was walking toward the front.

  As Estelle neared the low platform, Sister Avis said, “This is a Resurrection Morning in more than one way. Sister Estelle has a testimony she wants to share with us all.”

  When Estelle took the mike, I could see her hand shaking, but her voice was clear as she told about Mom being in a coma during the night but coming out of it when we prayed for her. I felt embarrassed that it had been Estelle who’d done the serious praying. I’d been too caught up in my own doubts and confusion to expect God to move on Mom’s behalf.

  The church broke into thunderous applause when Estelle finished her story, and Sister Avis encouraged everyone to speak out loud our thanksgiving to such a good God. After a few moments, Pastor Cobbs took the mike and spoke over the praise.

  “Lord, we thank you on today for waking us up on this Resurrection Morning, clothed and in our right minds. We want to thank you for all you’ve done. You made a way outta no way. You showed up right on time. You were a doctor when we were sick. A lawyer when we were in trouble. You helped us pay the bills when we were down to our last dime. Oh, we thank you. We thank you.”

  How true it was. In spite of feeling derailed by all the things we’d been through, God had been there. I hadn’t been alone.

  After church, we swung by the house. I was irritated that Rodney hadn’t gotten himself and DaShawn to church, but Estelle was gracious and simply apologized that she hadn’t been able to make Easter dinner. “In fact, Harry and I are heading back to the hospital right now to be with Mother Bentley. We’ll probably grab something to eat in the cafeteria. But you guys can fix yourself something here. There’s plenty in the fridge.”

  “Can I go?” It was hard to tell from his voice whether DaShawn wanted to spend the afternoon with his great-grandma or wanted to avoid the makeshift meal he and Rodney would have to throw together.

  “Uh, I dunno. You got any homework?”

  “Pops, what’s the matter with you? I been on spring break all week!”

  “Oh, yeah.” Had I really been so distracted by work that I forgot DaShawn was off from school? “You know there’s not much to do just sittin’ in a hospital room. Great-Grandma’s mostly asleep.” I resisted letting myself fear that she might have slipped back into a coma.

  “Hmm. Then can I go play with Tavis?”

  “If one of his parents is home and says okay.”

  When we finally got to the hospital, Mom was awake—eyes open, lookin’ around to give us a crooked smile when we came in. Her words still came out in gibberish, but she pointed with her good right hand toward the back of her head and mumbled the same thing.

  “What, Mom? Does your head hurt?”

  “Oooo.” She shook her head slightly, clearly indicating no, and tried to verbalize her complaint again.

  “She wants her head up,” Estelle said. “Push that button that raises the back of her bed.”

  “Ahh. Ahh. Ahh!”

  I hadn’t seen Mom this animated since she came into the hospital. Obviously, the damage of the stroke still inhibited her movement and ability to speak, but her spirits were high.

  When the nurse came in, she said Mom woke up from her morning nap shortly after we left for church.

  Since it wasn’t possible to carry on a conversation with Mom, we just sat with her watching TV. The second TV preacher of the afternoon was standing at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem doing a “documentary” in how the fast-moving recent events in the Middle East proved Jesus would return just as soon as construction began on rebuilding the Temple on Mount Moriah. “All the plans are ready,” he said, the wind stirring up a little dust and whistling in his mike, enhancing the on-site effect. “They could begin construction tomorrow if sufficient international pressure could be brought to bear on the government of Jordan, which controls this part of Jerusalem. But your donations to this ministry will help us bring that pressure and hasten the Lord’s return. The Bible says we are to be ‘looking for and hastening the coming of the day of God’—Second Peter three twelve—and this is how you can help. Write your check today or call the number on your screen with your credit card in hand.”

  In one form or another, Mom had been listening to similar charlatans for the last forty years. One more wouldn’t hurt, so I closed my eyes and drifted off.

  “Harry, Harry.” Estelle’s voice and her gentle shake of my shoulder woke me from my nap. “Mom’s asleep again. Maybe we should go.”

  I looked toward the window and could see that it was late afternoon. The TV was still going, but the sound had been muted. “Yeah.” I pushed the leg rest down on the recliner and stood up, my head feeling light for a moment. “Has the nurse been in?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago. She thinks Mom’s doing fine . . . considering.”

  We drove up the alley behind our house and parked in the garage when we got home. I had to take Corky out for a walk, and it looked like rain was coming, so I hustled up the back steps, and as I expected, Corky was all over me the moment I opened the door.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, girl. Get down! Just wait a minute.”

  I was reaching for the leash when I heard a loud racket coming from outside at the front of the house, like a “cat fight” of the human variety. I walked through the dining room and into the living room, and saw that one of the front windows was up, probably because the day had been warm enough to enjoy the fresh air.

  The sound was getting louder, like some ghetto witch yelling and screaming, parading her family business in the street for everyone to see and hear. I could
n’t think of anyone on the block we’d met who’d behave that way.

  “Corky, just hold on a minute. I gotta find out what’s goin’ on.”

  I slid up the window screen and leaned out. Rodney and DaShawn were standing on the front steps while a woman in tight pink shorts, platform heels, and a low-cut top stood in front of them screaming. She had one hand on her hip—a hip cocked so far to the side that it looked out of joint—while her other hand shook a finger at Rodney, all the time cursing and yelling.

  Didn’t take me long to recognize Donita—Donita Stevens, DaShawn’s mother and Rodney’s ex. Last time I’d seen the woman was two years ago when she’d been living with her pimp, Hector, and I’d managed to obtain custody of DaShawn.

  “What you doin’ wit my boy up in there with that thievin’ ol’ cop, anyway?” she was yelling. “You ain’t got no right!”

  I watched a few moments more, amazed at how Rodney kept his cool. DaShawn, on the other hand, was obviously upset. He stayed close to his dad but kept moving nervously like he was afraid of what was about to happen.

  “Come on, Corky. I’ve seen enough.”

  Corky was down the front stairs before I’d taken four steps, panting at the front door, her tail wagging her whole rear end. When I let her out, she shot past DaShawn and around to the side bushes to pee. I stepped out onto the porch and between Rodney and Donita. “What’re you doin’ here?”

  “Dad, I’m handlin’—”

  “No! This is my house, and you’re not welcome here, Donita. You need to go.”

  She arched her back and shook that finger at me. “I don’t give a flyin’ fig what you think! I’m here to get my boy, and you ain’t gonna stop me, not this time, you, you—” And she called me both the F- and N-words.

  “And you’re not free to use that kind of language around here either!”

  “Huh! This here’s a free country, and I’ll say whatever I want to say . . . you—” More N-bombs.

  “Dad, let me—”

  I ignored him. “Corky.” I pointed at Donita. The dog sniffed—and sat down suddenly, stock-still, nose pointed at our “guest.”

  “Get that dog away from me! Get her away! What’s she doin’? Get her away, I tell ya!”

  I pulled out my iPhone and made a show of turning it on. “What Corky’s doin’ is identifying you as someone who’s holdin’ drugs. And what I’m doin’ is dialin’ 9-1-1.”

  “What? What you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “You heard me. I’m dialin’ 9-1-1.” I made a show of punching the 9, with its little beep. “Ya see, Corky’s a certified drug detection dog, and I’m an Amtrak police detective. I could arrest you myself, but it’ll be less paperwork if a Chicago cop does it. So . . .” I made another show of punching the first 1—beep.

  “Wait a minute! You ain’t got nothin’ on me. I’m clean.”

  I pointed at Corky, who remained sitting a foot away from Donita, nose pointed unflinchingly at the woman. “Dog says otherwise, and she knows. Should I finish dialing?” I raised my finger.

  Donita glared. “Any cop has to have probable cause to search me. I know my rights.”

  “Sure you do. And Corky just provided that probable cause. What she smells with her nose is just as good as if you were twirling a baggy full of rock in plain sight.”

  “You lie.”

  “Shall we see?” I started bringing my finger down on my phone.

  “Wait . . . wait a minute.” She raised both hands. “I don’t want no hassles.”

  I backed off and lowered my phone. “Okay. Here’s the deal. You don’t show up here unannounced ever again. Phone first—”

  “I did! I phoned this fool the other day.”

  I turned to Rodney. “Is that true? When was that?”

  “Dunno. Week ago, when we were comin’ back from the hospital.”

  Oh, yeah. I remembered that cryptic call when he was riding in the backseat. “That?” I turned to Donita. “That don’t count. You want to come to my house, you get my permission. I’m the one who has custody of DaShawn—and you’ll need a good reason too. And another thing, if you ever show up here again with drugs on you—even the smallest amount—I will have you arrested.” Now I was the one shaking a finger in her face. “Don’t test me, woman. I’d as soon see you in prison as not.”

  Suddenly, the rain that had been threatening for the last half hour began to fall in huge drops as it can only do in the Midwest.

  “Oh, sh—!” she cursed so loudly I was sure all the neighbors could hear. “Now look whatcha done!”

  But did I care? Ha! I was glad to see her running down the street in those platform spikes, holding on to her copper-colored wig as the rain beat it down around her ears.

  Rodney stepped back up under the porch roof out of the rain, wagging his head. I thought it was at Donita, but maybe it was at me. DaShawn looked pained, almost like he might cry. I put my arm around his shoulder. “Come on, son. Let’s go in.”

  Chapter 20

  DaShawn hollered, “Bye!” and thundered down the stairs the next morning, eager to get back to school after his boring spring break. I clipped the leash on Corky, ready to head out the back door to work when my iPhone rang.

  It was Captain Gilson. “Hey Bentley, we got a tip from the DEA that there’s a load of grass comin’ in on the California Zephyr. They don’t know who’s carrying it, but it’s supposed to be a substantial amount. So bring whatever you and Corky need for an overnight. I’m sending you out to meet it in Lincoln, Nebraska.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll take the westbound Zephyr this afternoon. It gets into Lincoln about midnight, plenty of time for you to get off and catch the eastbound coming back through Lincoln about three hours later.”

  “Three in the morning? You want me to catch a train at three in the morning? Man, that’s above my pay grade.”

  “Hey, that’s why detectives are salaried. You’re not on the clock. Remember?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Look, have a second cup of coffee and get your stuff together. Train doesn’t leave until two this afternoon, but get here no later than eleven. We got plans to make.”

  “Yeah, and we need to talk. See ya when I get there.”

  “Oh, and Bentley. Don’t forget a pair of wraparound shades and . . . and bring some kinda cool hat, maybe one of those flat caps like golfers wear, something to give you a little character. Go buy yourself one. We can expense it. Know what I mean?”

  I pressed End and slipped my phone into my pocket. Something to give me a little character, huh? Like I don’t have any character? Yeah, well, I had an old plaid flat cap, so beat up it looked like Corky had used it for a chew toy. I’d take it just to spite Gilson for wanting me to play the ol’ blind man routine. I’d need to stop at a Walgreens to pick up a pair of wraparound shades.

  I hung up the leash, much to Corky’s disappointment. “Estelle?” Guess she was still in the bathroom. “Estelle, I’m not goin’ in till a bit later. Tell you about it when you come out.” I knew she wouldn’t like me being gone overnight any more than I did. We’d planned to see Mom.

  I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed. Corky came up and laid her muzzle on my knee, her sad eyes looking at me and then off to the side as if to say, “What’s the matter, boss? Why ain’t we goin’?”

  I gave her a scratch under the ears. “All right, girl. We’ll go.” I got up and pulled my overnight satchel out of the closet and began packing. But a lump rose in my throat that a dog seemed to understand me so well without a hint of judgment.

  “Ah, Harry. Glad you’re here.” Gilson looked at his watch. “Hey, not too early for lunch. Let’s go up to the food court and get some Chinese.”

  I gulped. Fast-food Chinese was about as authentic as a reality show. Not the way to start a train trip, in my opinion. But Gilson was the captain.

  We dropped Corky at the kennel, and ten minutes later got ourselves seated with plasti
c plates piled high with fried rice, General Tso’s chicken, and chow mein.

  “Okay, here’s the skinny,” Gilson said. “The DEA claims they got a solid tip on a large shipment of marijuana being moved from Reno, Nevada, to Chicago on the Zephyr, but they didn’t get their people to the station in Reno before the train pulled out—”

  “Ha! Shoddy police work. That’s on them.”

  “Now hold on a minute.”

  I knew I’d spoken too soon, trigger-happy from being on edge about this whole charade.

  “It’s not that simple,” Gilson explained. “The Union Pacific Club just had its eighty-sixth annual convention in Reno, and the Zephyr had to add two cars to accommodate all the people heading home. A hundred sixty-two people got on in Reno. Allegedly, one of them’s a mule, but most are happy conventioneers who support the railroad. We don’t want to make ’em angry by questioning everyone who boarded in Reno, and we’d be accused of profiling if we only looked at the other passengers.”

  “So how am I supposed to do what the DEA can’t?”

  “Ah, that’s the thing. This is the perfect test for you and Corky. You catch the train coming this way in Lincoln, and you’ll have nearly twelve hours to find our man—”

  “You’re sure it’s a man?”

  “Just a figure of speech. Anyway, you’ll have access to the whole train without disturbing any conventioneers or anyone else until you identify our mule. Then, bingo, give the DEA a call and have him picked up at the next stop.”

  “How much weed is he supposed to be movin’?”

  “DEA says over forty pounds. Could be worth two hundred thousand dollars on the street. Not bad for a start if you can catch him, Bentley.”

  I could feel the hook set. When you put a challenge in front of me, I can’t resist. “Okay. What’s next?”