She took a deep breath and headed for the highway. Brittany drove south, the traffic getting a little bit heavier with each passing mile. There was gridlock near Dulles. She tried to relax and listen to the radio. Brittany enjoyed the variety of music. She eventually arrived at Crescent Cove in Woodbridge, Virginia. She searched for a few minutes, finding an empty spot marked Visitor, The town house community was jam-packed with cars. The parking lot was well-lit.
She fixed her hair in the rearview mirror, brushing it with her fingers and tucking it behind her ears. She frowned at her reflection. Her eyes were red and puffy with dark circles. She stepped from the Hyundai, locked the door, and marched up to house number 8817. It was a vinyl-sided middle unit townhome with a red door and a mat that read Bienvenido.
She rang the doorbell.
A boy yelled, “Door! … Mom, door!”
A female said, “Are your legs broke? Ay dios mio.”
The door opened. A brown-skinned preteen boy with big dark eyes answered with a bright smile.
“Hi,” he said with a wave.
“I was lookin’ for Yolanda.”
The boy turned and yelled down the hall. “Mom, it’s for you!”
He was replaced at the door by a heavyset Latino woman in scrubs. She had dark curly hair, round cheeks, and a wide nose. She looked down at Brittany; her eyes narrowed. “Hello,” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’m a friend of James. He told me to come here and talk to you.”
She smiled. “You wouldn’t happen to be Brittany, would you?”
Brittany nodded. “I am.”
“Why don’t you come inside?” Yolanda said, stepping back from the door.
“Can we talk in private?”
Yolanda led Brittany into a tiny cluttered office, with a desktop computer and an enormous monitor.
Yolanda shut the door and offered Brittany a seat. She sat in the wooden chair, Yolanda in the computer chair. Brittany pulled the letter for Yolanda from her jacket pocket and handed it to the woman.
Yolanda furrowed her brow and opened the letter. She pulled out three handwritten double-sided pages in James’s neat cursive.
“This might take me a while to read this,” Yolanda said.
“That’s okay,” Brittany replied.
Brittany took off her coat and hung it on her chair. She watched the woman read James’s letter, alternately angry and sad, shaking her head, her jaw tight, gasping, and dabbing the corners of her eyes with the side of her fist. Then her eyes were as big as quarters. At the end she stood and stepped to Brittany. She bent forward and gathered her in her arms. Brittany laid her head on her chest.
Yolanda let go and said, “Everything’ll be fine, honey. Don’t you worry.”
“What now?”
“First things first. James brought you down here after your shift on Monday. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“And you are not to talk to anyone without me and a lawyer present. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Let’s get you moved in then,” Yolanda said. “You can have Marco’s room for the time being. He can sleep on the couch in the basement. He usually ends up there anyway. My husband can help you with your things. Make sure you bring that bag inside.”
Brittany furrowed her brow.
Yolanda winked. “You know the one I’m talking about. Just put it in Marco’s room for tonight. I’m taking off tomorrow so we can take a trip to Ashburn. In James’s letter, it said that you should store the money at the Commonwealth Vault & Safe Deposit Company.”
“Is that a bank?”
“I’m not sure, honey, but, knowing James, I bet it’s not.” Yolanda opened the door and called out to the living room where the television flickered. “Cesar, I need your help.”
A middle-aged Latino man with a weathered face and thick forearms stomped down the hall in construction boots.
Yolanda frowned at the man. “What did I tell you about your boots in the house?”
He smiled, exposing two gold teeth. “I was inside today.”
“This is Brittany.” Yolanda motioned to the tiny white girl in their office. “She’s the friend of James’s who needs a place to stay for a while.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Cesar said to Brittany with a thick hand held out.
Brittany held out her tiny hand. Cesar shook it gently with a smile. Brittany smiled in return.
“Let’s get your things,” Cesar said.
Cesar and Brittany carried her stuff in from the Hyundai. She held tight to the duffel bag. Marco had already taken the clothes he needed for the next few days. Cesar left her alone in Marco’s room with her belongings. She shut the door and shoved the duffel bag under the bed. The bunk beds reminded her of the cabin. Marco had a small desk and posters of soccer players. Her boxes of envelopes were stacked in the corner, stamped and addressed, awaiting the letters. She opened James’s suitcase, stared at his neatly folded clothes, and cried. She heard a soft knock at the door. She sniffled, wiped her tears on her sleeve, and opened the door. Yolanda stood with a folded towel, a washcloth, soap, and a travel-size shampoo bottle.
“I brought you some shower things,” Yolanda said, handing the toiletries to Brittany. “You can use the shower across the hall whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” Brittany said, her eyes wet. She placed the toiletries on the desk near the door.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Yolanda stepped into the room.
“I left him.”
Yolanda frowned. “I’m sure you did what you had to do.”
Tears spilled over Brittany’s eyelids. “He was hurt. He couldn’t run. He told me to wait ten minutes, but he never came, and there was a gunshot. He’s gone. I know it.” She sobbed.
Yolanda stepped forward and hugged her tiny houseguest. “Honey, you don’t know that.”
Brittany let go.
“Can I tell you something about James?” Yolanda asked.
Brittany nodded.
“He’s a very smart man.” Yolanda smiled. “Something tells me that you already know that. So if anyone could have figured a way out, he would have. Don’t count him out, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Cesar and I have to take a trip to Pennsylvania tonight to return that car of yours.”
“Are you going to the airport parking lot?”
Yolanda shook her head with a smirk. “I don’t even want to know why you would think that. He gave me the address of the person he bought the car from. It just says we’re supposed to drop it off with the note he prepared and to not let the previous owner see us.”
“What does it say—the note?”
Yolanda chuckled. “It says something about his daughter using the car to go out and party and buy drugs, so he took it away. It says that he’s sorry for the inconvenience, and he doesn’t want a refund. It also says that he was too embarrassed to drop the car off face-to-face.” Yolanda took a deep breath. “Will you be okay by yourself for a while?”
“I think so.”
“You can help yourself in the kitchen if you get hungry. I’ll see you in the morning.” Yolanda turned to walk away.
“Yolanda?”
She turned back around.
“Thank you … for everything.”
Chapter 20
Take a Bite out of Crime
Here it comes.
His heart pounded; his breath was heavy. James tied his thick winter coat around his shin on his bad leg. He pulled the knife from his belt. He stood on his good leg, bending into an athletic stance, bracing for impact. James pressed his bad leg out in front, like a lamb to the slaughter. He held the knife in both hands, the blade facing down. He heard the rustling of the leaves, then he saw it—the German shepherd with its teeth bared, racing toward him. In the blink of an eye the dog clamped on his leg, sinking its teeth into his jacket, and shaking loose some white feathery goose down. James rammed the knife into the back of the do
g’s neck. There was a yelp and a whimper as the dog let go of the jacket. James held on to the knife as the police dog lay on the ground, whining.
He placed the bloody knife back in the sheath and hobbled down the trail. He struggled forward, each step taking away his breath, powered by pure adrenaline. James heard men behind him on the windy path. He pushed forward, the voices getting louder. He saw the fork at the end. A single shot fired in the distance that made him flinch. He continued downhill toward the small gravel parking lot. Through the trees, he saw the Hyundai motor past. He waved his arms and hurried into the street, but she was gone. He hobbled across the street, not bothering to look for oncoming traffic. James burst into the office at Gil’s Storage, his jacket still attached to his leg, bleeding goose down. The old man sat behind his desk, glaring at James.
“I need to go to the hospital,” James said. “Can you take me? I can pay.”
The man stood in the cold office, wearing his parka and gloves. He grabbed his keys. “Let’s go then.”
James hobbled out the door. The old man locked the office and helped James into his rusted Chevy pickup. The man cranked the ignition and tore out of the gravel lot. They turned left, toward town, toward the hospital. James bent forward as he saw men in uniform between the trees, coming down the trail. He glanced in the side-view mirror. He saw them run across the street with guns drawn.
The old man’s face was weathered with white stubble. He glanced at James and back to the road. “What happened to you?”
“Hiking accident. I hurt my ankle,” James said. “I think it might be broken.”
The old man chuckled. “Prob’ly a sprain. You wouldn’t be able to walk at all if it were broke. You do look like death warmed over.”
“It’s been a rough day.”
“How’s that parkin’ spot workin’ out?”
“I won’t be needing it anymore.”
They made small talk about the weather, business, and the Steelers. The old man stopped his truck short of the emergency room entrance, an ambulance offloading precious cargo.
“I’ll get out here,” James said, opening the door.
Once standing on his good foot, he reached in the back pocket of his canvas pants and pulled out his wallet.
“Don’t even think about it, young man,” he said.
James pushed his wallet back in his pocket. “Thank you. I just realized that I don’t know your name.”
“Name’s Gil,” he said.
“Makes sense. Thank you, Gil.”
“You need help gettin’ in there?”
“No. Thank you.”
The old man nodded and drove toward the exit.
James gimped toward the parking lot labeled Employee Parking. He found a concealed place between a six-foot-tall holly hedge and a couple of SUVs. He removed his shredded jacket from his calf and stuck his hands inside the tears, rearranging what was left of the goose down. James put on the jacket, pulled his wallet and burner phone from his pocket, and sat on the curb. He removed a white business card from his wallet that read Cynthia Wiggins, MD. He dialed her cell phone number.
“This is Dr. Wiggins,” she said.
“This is James Fisher. I’m not sure if you remember me. I brought my friend in who was attacked.”
“Yes, of course I remember. How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine, but I need your help.”
“Mr. Fisher, is it an emergency?”
“Yes.”
“Then hang up and dial 9-1-1.”
“Not that kind of emergency.” James took a deep breath. “I believe Frank Wiggins is innocent, and I have information that might get him a new trial.”
The line went silent.
“Dr. Wiggins?”
She exhaled. “You think I don’t know my husband’s innocent? I’ve been down this road, had my hopes up and my heart broken too many times. Frank, bless his heart, is where he is, and that’s where he’ll be until the day he dies.”
“All I’m asking is that you hear me out. If you don’t like what I have to say, I’ll walk away.”
The line was silent.
“Dr. Wiggins?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the employee parking lot of the hospital.”
“I get off at five,” she said. “I’ll meet you by my car then. It’s an old Mercedes. It’s in the back of the lot.”
“I’ll be there.”
She hung up.
James checked the time on his burner phone—4:23 p.m. He staggered behind the bushes. His bladder ached as he peed. He hobbled along the cars at the back of the lot, keeping his eyes and ears open for sirens, lights, and police cruisers. He groaned and sat down with his injured leg straight out in front of him. James sat on the curb between the old Mercedes and a Cadillac Escalade. Periodically he heard sirens and saw flashing lights zoom past the main road adjacent to the hospital. A couple cruisers pulled into the emergency room parking lot with flashing lights. His mouth was dry, his stomach hollow. His heart raced, and his head pounded from lack of sleep. He closed his eyes.
“Mr. Fisher,” a female said.
His eyes fluttered and opened. Dr. Wiggins stared down at him with a frown. She wore a pencil skirt, flats, and a gray pea coat.
“What happened to you?” she asked. “You look dreadful.”
“Hiking accident,” he said with a groan as he stood with his good leg.
She shook her head. “I don’t think I want to be a part of whatever it is you’re selling.” She marched around the car to the driver’s side.
“Please, Dr. Wiggins. I need your help. Please.”
She ignored him, opened the driver’s side door, and sat down, her eyes forward. She cranked the engine.
He felt for the Glock in his pocket. “The Stricklands have been harassing Leon,” James said loud enough for Dr. Wiggins to hear through the car window.
She turned toward James, her eyes wide.
“He didn’t tell you, did he? Did Wade Strickland threaten you?”
She powered the passenger window down. “How did you know that?”
“I’ve been taping them.”
She exhaled and unlocked the passenger door. “Get in.”
James removed his hand from the butt of the Glock and entered the Mercedes. He powered the window up.
“Do you have a computer at your house?” he asked.
“We can go to the library.”
James looked at her, his eyes bloodshot, his face pale. “Please. I can’t show you what I have in a public place. It’s not safe. I need your help.”
“I can’t have you in my home.”
“One hour, Dr. Wiggins. Just listen to me for one hour. If you don’t want to help me, I’ll walk away.”
She pursed her lips. “One hour,” she said.
Dr. Wiggins pulled out of the parking lot. He dipped down in his seat as she passed the police cars near the emergency room. They drove through town in silence, James sitting low. Dr. Wiggins turned into an upper-middle-class neighborhood of homes made from vinyl and particleboard. She stopped the Mercedes in the driveway of a two-story colonial. She hit the garage door opener on the visor and pulled the Mercedes inside. James staggered behind her through the garage door into the kitchen. She turned on the lights and dumped her purse on the center island. Dr. Wiggins walked out of the kitchen toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” James asked, struggling to keep up.
“You said you needed a computer,” she responded without looking back.
She made a right turn near the front door into an office with a laptop computer. She flipped it open, turned it on, and sat in the desk chair. James stood next to her, on one leg.
“Pull up a chair,” she said. “You don’t look too comfortable.”
He dragged a wooden chair from the corner. He winced as he sat next to her.
“Let’s hear it,” she said with an edge in her voice.
“My friend Brittany was rap
ed by Harold and Wade Strickland.”
She put her hand over her mouth. “That’s why she wouldn’t talk about it.”
He nodded.
She narrowed her eyes at James. “How did you become involved?”
“Brittany was living with Harold. I live two miles away on the same road. I saw Harold yelling at her, and it appeared he was hitting her.”
“Appeared?”
“I couldn’t see everything from the road.”
She nodded.
“My cabin’s just off a trail that she hiked. She was watching me garden.”
Dr. Wiggins frowned. “She was watching you?”
“Yes. The houses are far apart, and a lot of people use the cabins as hunting camps, so very few people are around. I think she was desperate to talk to someone. I caught her watching me, and I talked to her. She helped me with my garden and showed me how to forage in the woods. We became friends.”
She pursed her lips. “Just friends?”
James was stone-faced. “There was never anything physical between us.”
“How did she come under your care?”
“I suspected she was being abused. She’d always have some bruise she couldn’t explain, and she covered her neck with a scarf. One day we had plans to meet halfway between my cabin and Harold’s trailer to pick persimmons. On that day, I walked toward Harold’s, but I never saw her on the path. I ended up walking all the way to Harold’s trailer. That’s when I figured out why she didn’t meet me. I heard shouting and glass breaking. I ran to the door and knocked. Harold answered and threatened me. Brittany’s face was beaten. She had a black eye and a bloody lip. I asked her to come with me, and she did.”
“What about her family?”
“That was my first question for her. I thought I could just drive her home. She was a runaway. And for good reason. Going home wasn’t an option.”
Cesspool Page 19