Cesspool

by Phil M. Williams

“How does this have anything to do with Frank?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  She nodded.

  “Brittany was doing really well. She passed her GED. She got a job. She was in therapy at the campus. We went out to celebrate, and, on the way home, I was pulled over. I was arrested for drunk driving.”

  Dr. Wiggins scowled. “How much did you have to drink?”

  “I had one glass of wine. They put me in the township jail for the night and released me in the morning. They dropped the charges. When I returned to my cabin”—he swallowed—“that’s when I brought her to the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Where is she now?”

  “Someplace safe.” He took a deep breath. “I wanted justice for her, and I knew it wouldn’t come from the police. Chief Strickland and his son Officer Dale Strickland would meet every Monday night at Dot’s Diner in the same booth. I taped a few of their conversations.”

  Her eyes were wide.

  “They talked about Frank. They talked about something that your lawyer could use to get him a new trial. Based on what they did to Brittany, and what I heard on the tapes, I think Frank is in prison for crimes committed by Wade and Harold.”

  “Do you have the audio?”

  James pulled the USB flash drive from his wallet. “Can I get in there?” he asked motioning toward the computer.

  They switched seats, and James played the conversation. Dr. Wiggins leaned in, listening. She asked James to pause and rewind the recording at certain points. She took notes on a yellow pad. At the conclusion of the recording, he turned to the doctor. Her eyes were glassy.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You know, a tiny piece of me always had my doubts. In the back of my mind I thought, maybe he did do it. They had an eyewitness who placed him at the scene. Frank had had a few brushes with the law when he was younger. Eleven years he’s been in prison.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Unfortunately you can’t use the recording. It’s illegal to record someone without their knowledge. That doesn’t mean your lawyer can’t look into those murders that happened while Frank was in prison. He should reopen the evidence. I don’t know how that works, but I have a feeling they tampered with it. Frank could get a new trial.”

  She exhaled. “It’s a long road—the legal system. May I have a copy of that?”

  “On one condition,” James replied.

  She scowled. “Nothing’s free in this world.”

  “I need a place to hide out for a few weeks. The Stricklands know I’ve been snooping around. They’re looking for me now.”

  “So you’re asking me to harbor a fugitive?”

  “If we get caught, I’ll tell them that I broke in and threatened to kill you if you didn’t help me.”

  “I’m not sure I even need the recording. I wrote down the details that my lawyer would need.”

  “That’s true,” he said, “but, if you help me, I can guarantee that the Stricklands are going down for good. Do you want to live in a town where Leon’s harassed by the cops, the same cops that put away your husband for life?”

  She pursed her lips. “There’s something you’re not telling me. If you expect me to help you, I have to know the whole truth.”

  James took off his knit cap, revealing bloodstained bandages wrapped around his head. Her mouth was open.

  “Dale Strickland figured out it was me,” James said. “He beat me with the butt of his gun. He would have killed me, but … I can’t tell you what happened. It’s best you don’t know. All I can say is I did what I had to out of self-defense.”

  She exhaled and closed her eyes for a moment. She looked at James’s ashen face. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “You’re literally saving my life.”

  “I’ll have Leon stay with his grandparents while you’re here. I think it’s best that nobody knows.”

  Dr. Wiggins gave James a large bottle of water and took him upstairs to the guest bathroom. James sucked down the water. The guest bath had a toilet, sink, and a shower with a tub. He sat on the toilet as she cleaned his head wounds, added a few stitches, and applied fresh bandages. She rolled up his pant legs. He grimaced as she pulled the boot and sock off his hurt foot. She examined the ankle. His foot and ankle were swollen and puffy. He winced as she manipulated it.

  “Good news is, I don’t think it’s broken,” she said. “Bad news is, you should stay off your feet for a week or so. I’ll bring some crutches home tomorrow.”

  She grabbed a fresh bar of soap from under the sink and some shampoo. She put the toiletries in the shower and hung a fresh towel and washcloth on the rack.

  “You can wear some of Frank’s clothes,” she said. “You’re a little thinner than him, but you two are about the same height.”

  James looked up at the doctor. “After everything they did, why did you stay?”

  She sighed. “Frank’s parents, I guess. I don’t have a relationship with mine. His folks became my surrogates. We talked about moving. The Wiggins name was pretty well destroyed around here. Frank’s dad wouldn’t have it. He said we weren’t going to hang our heads in shame and let them banish us. He said we would stay and fight for ourselves and for Frank.” She half smiled, her eyes dead. “That was ten years ago, and people around here have pretty much moved on … except for us.”

  Chapter 21

  Time to Go

  James buttoned Frank’s flannel shirt. He parted the blinds in the guest bedroom. The late-afternoon sun warmed his face. He saw the Mercedes pull into the garage. James bounded down the steps to the kitchen. Dr. Cynthia Wiggins entered from the garage.

  “How was your day?” James asked.

  She sighed and put her purse on the center island. “Not too bad,” she said. “What did you want to do for dinner?”

  “I was going to cook burgers and mushrooms with parmesan asparagus, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sounds great.” She sighed. “Are you sure you won’t stay? It’s been nice having a live-in maid and cook.”

  “It has been nice.” James smiled. “Leon must be bugging you to come home.”

  “Not a peep out of him. His grandparents treat him like royalty.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, eating dinner with the shades drawn.

  “Have you decided where you’ll go?” she asked.

  “Yes, but …”

  “I know you can’t tell me. I don’t know why I keep asking. I guess I want to be able to picture you somewhere.” She half smiled. “I meant what I said earlier. I’ve enjoyed your company.”

  “The past few weeks … what you’ve done for me … what you’ve risked for me …” James paused, his eyes on her. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  James drove Cynthia’s Mercedes to the small gravel lot across the street from Gil’s Storage. He wore gloves, a dark jacket, and a knit hat. He pulled a shovel from the trunk. James hiked up the trail to the fork. He followed the path toward his cabin, the moonlight providing just enough light to stay on course. He felt for the flashlight in his pocket. Only if I really need it.

  He slowed down and listened as he neared the cabin. All was silent. He crept behind the brush pile. Police tape marked the exit of the escape tunnel. He sneaked to the back of the cabin. Police tape covered the back door. It was dark inside. He tiptoed to the front. More police tape was strung across the cabin driveway like the finish to a track event. He surveyed his surroundings, listening—nothing.

  He walked to the middle of his garden, the shovel in hand. The pinkish-white quartz rock glowed in the moonlight. He set down the shovel and flipped over the rock, moving it aside. The leaves rustled behind him. He whirled around, listening—still nothing. James started digging. He moved the loose soil quickly, until he hit something solid. He dug around the oblong-shaped object, a twenty-four-inch section of PVC pipe capped at both ends.

  He heaved the pipe out of the hole. He knew the contents weighe
d exactly forty pounds. James backfilled the hole and reset the rock. He groaned as he placed the pipe on his shoulder. He stepped on the shovel, so the handle popped up within reaching distance. James grabbed hold of the shovel and hiked back to the trail. He put the shovel and the pipe in the trunk of the Mercedes and headed back toward Cynthia’s. He drove on a lonely two-lane road with fallow fields and leafless trees as scenery. Closer to town, he approached an intersection, with a cruiser parked on the grassy median. He held his breath as he approached. He laughed. The police car was empty, sitting there as a passive deterrent to would-be speeders.

  * * *

  The late-morning sun warmed the interior of the Mercedes. James glanced over at Cynthia. She drove like she practiced medicine—precise, nothing left to chance. Her hands were at ten and two. She looked off in the distance, scanning for hazards, the car straight and true. They took the Hanover exit off US 15. James navigated the doctor to a strip mall. She parked in front of a coin shop.

  She turned to James, her coffee-colored skin shining in the sun. “I’m just supposed to leave you here?”

  James nodded. “I can’t ever repay you for what you’ve done for me. Thank you, Cynthia.”

  She smiled. “Will I receive one of your letters?”

  “Everyone in the township will.”

  He opened the passenger door of the Mercedes and stepped out. Cynthia exited and walked around the car. James opened the back door and pulled out a rolling suitcase, heavy from the PVC tube inside.

  “Thank you for the clothes,” James said, setting the suitcase on the asphalt.

  Cynthia wrapped her arms around James. He reciprocated, a lump in his throat.

  “Maybe one day you could send me something to let me know you’re okay,” she said.

  “I will.” He walked toward the coin shop. He stopped at the door, turned around, waved, and entered.

  A glass case filled with collectible coins had a fat man behind it. James showed the man a few one-ounce gold American Eagles. James gave the man five ounces of gold. The man paid in cash, the price they agreed to over the phone. The cash was denominated in hundreds. James put $4,000 in an envelope and $2,400 in his wallet.

  He walked across the street, pulling his suitcase. He entered a Dunkin’ Donuts, ordered an egg sandwich and a coffee. James sat in a booth by the window. He glanced at his new burner phone—10:47 a.m. Almost time. He ate his sandwich and sipped his coffee. A black Honda Civic and a Ford F-250 pickup with a toolbox pulled into the lot. Two burly men wearing thick canvas jackets and work boots exited the vehicles. They marched into Dunkin’ Donuts, their heads on a swivel. James waved and stood as the men stomped over to his booth.

  “James?” the bushy-bearded one asked.

  “You must be Greg,” James said as he shook the man’s hand.

  “This is my friend Chris,” Greg said, referring to the stubbly faced man to his left.

  They exchanged pleasantries and sat down at the booth.

  “You guys want anything to eat? Coffee?” James asked.

  “We need to get back to work,” Chris said with a frown.

  James pulled the white envelope from his pocket and handed it to Greg. “The amount we agreed upon.”

  Greg opened the envelope. “With the extra for the plates?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t mind if I count it, do you?”

  “By all means.”

  James sipped his coffee while Greg counted out four thousand dollars in hundreds.

  He pulled the Honda keys and the title from his jacket pocket. “Here you go,” Greg said. “I put the spare on the ring for you too.”

  “I appreciate that,” James said.

  “And you’ll mail my plates in two weeks?”

  “You have my word.”

  “It’s in great shape,” Greg said. “Do you wanna drive it around?”

  “You drove it here, so it must run okay.”

  After the two men left, James finished his coffee and drove the Honda around the corner to a FedEx store. James parked in front and opened his suitcase. He removed a manila folder, locked the car, and walked into the office. Inside were copiers, boxes, packing materials, and a counter against the far wall. He approached the young female employee behind the counter.

  “I’d like to make five thousand single-sided copies,” James said.

  “I can do that for you,” she said with a smile.

  “Would it be okay if I did it myself on one of the self-serve copiers?” James asked. “The letter is private.”

  “I can set it up so it will do five thousand, then you can put the paper in.” She winked at James. “I won’t look.”

  She took James to a self-serve copier, keyed in her employee number, and punched in 5000 for the amount.

  She said, “You just have to put your paper in facedown and hit Start. Check them as they come out. If they look wrong, hit Cancel here.” She pointed to a button with a red X. “It would be a bummer to print so many and not like them.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I’ll just be at the desk if you need me.”

  James removed the single typewritten sheet of paper from the manila folder, placed it facedown inside the copier, and shut the lid. He smiled to himself and pressed the button. He asked the woman if he could have a pen, a piece of paper, and a letter-size envelope. He said she could add it to his total. While he waited, he wrote a letter in neat cursive and sealed it in the envelope marked Brittany.

  James drove south on US 15 in the Honda with his suitcase, PVC tube of precious metals, and the twenty-five-pound box of paper. He hit a little bit of lunch traffic near Dulles. He drove into a middle-class town house community. The stone sign in front read, Crescent Cove. He parked in the empty space in front of a middle unit townhome. He left the car running as he hauled the box to the front door and dropped it on the Bienvenido mat.

  Chapter 22

  Exodus

  Yolanda parked in front of the two-story brick building. The sign over the front door read, Prince William County Police Department. A man in a dark suit waited outside under the sign. Brittany sat in the passenger seat, her palms sweaty, her face flushed. The sun shone into the front window of the Toyota Camry.

  “You ready?” Yolanda asked.

  “I can’t do this,” Brittany replied.

  “It’ll be fine, girl. It’s better to face it now than to worry all the time.”

  Brittany looked down at her hands.

  “Mr. Matthews is waiting for us,” Yolanda said. “He’ll be right there. He won’t let you say anything that could hurt you.”

  Brittany nodded. Courage is being afraid but doing it anyway.

  They met Mr. Matthews in front of the building. He was fit for someone north of sixty. He wore a tailored three-piece suit. He was clean-shaven with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Brittany,” he said with a wide smile, his hand outstretched.

  “Hi, Mr. Matthews,” she said as she put her tiny hand in his.

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “We’re prepared.”

  They signed in with the receptionist just inside the building. They were led upstairs via an elevator. On the second floor, they were greeted by a petite female detective in a pantsuit. She was in her mid-forties, with short hair and a boyish face.

  “I’m Detective Morgan,” she said. “I’ll be sitting in with Detective Warren from North Schuylkill Township.” They exchanged brief pleasantries. She led them to a windowless room. Video cameras were mounted in the upper corners, and a rectangular table with six chairs filled the room. “We’ll be with you in a moment.”

  She shut the door and left Mr. Matthews, Yolanda, and Brittany alone in the room. They sat on one side of the table, Brittany sandwiched between her muscle.

  “I know we went over this,” Mr. Matthews said to Brittany, “but do not answer any questions unless I say it is okay to answer. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,”
she said.

  “We’re doing this as a courtesy. You’re under no legal obligation to be here. If they get out of line, we’ll walk,” he said with a grin.

  Detective Morgan entered the room, followed by Detective Warren. Warren was of medium height, stocky, with pale skin and blond curls cut tight to his head. They stood across the table from Brittany and her posse.

  “This is Detective Warren from North Schuylkill Township,” Morgan said, motioning to the man standing next to her in a suit that was too loose on his legs and too tight on his barrel chest.

  Mr. Matthews and Yolanda stood and shook the man’s hand, making introductions. Brittany remained seated with her arms crossed over her chest. Everyone sat down.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Summers,” Detective Warren said to Brittany.

  Brittany nodded, not making eye contact.

  “As you probably know,” Warren said, “we’re looking for James Fisher in connection with the disappearance of Harold and Dale Strickland, as well as felony burglary and theft.”

  Brittany’s jaw was set tight.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Warren asked.

  Brittany looked at her lawyer. He nodded.

  “A little over three weeks ago,” Brittany said. “He dropped me off at Yolanda’s house really early.”

  “Do you remember the exact date?” Warren asked.

  Brittany looked at her lawyer. He nodded.

  “February twenty-third,” Brittany said.

  The detective narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “The twenty-third, huh? Would it surprise you to find out that we have an eyewitness that places a petite female with James Fisher on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Mr. Matthews said. “Mrs. Mendez has already vouched for Brittany’s whereabouts on the twenty-fourth, and, since you do not have a positive identification, I suggest you move on, or we will cease our cooperation.”

  Detective Warren cleared his throat. “After Mr. Fisher dropped you off with Mrs. Mendez, did he say where he was going?”

  Brittany glanced at her lawyer. He approved.