by Billy Wells
Regardless of the anxiety and the hopelessness she felt from the visitations, she decided to go one more time before she left to hunt down Beelzebub.
Arriving at the facility, she stepped into the cool, air-conditioned space and went directly to the front desk. When Lisa informed the receptionist that she was there to visit her son, the woman smiled, but, after referring to her computer screen, her smile changed to a frown. She pushed a red button on the desk and said sternly, “I'm sorry to inform you that Brent has been moved to another facility. His condition demanded a higher degree of security than we can offer here.”
“A higher degree of security?” Lisa replied, shaking her head in disbelief. “How is that possible? He wears a straitjacket and a mouthpiece and is confined to a padded cell. What greater security can there be?”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Moore. The CDC and the FBI have become involved in your son’s case, and I am not at liberty to divulge his whereabouts at this time. This is now a matter of national security. Here is a number you can call for more information, but that's all I've been instructed to say.”
An elderly man she recognized as Dr. Printz, Brent’s psychiatrist, entered the room and approached her with a long face.
“Where have they taken him?” Lisa pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Moore. I don’t really know, and, even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. I think the agent said it was somewhere in the Southwest.”
“Southwest? You mean Nevada, New Mexico, that Southwest?”
He stared at her blankly and said nothing.
“If I didn't know better, it sounds like he may have gone the way of the aliens in Area 51.” Lisa feigned a chuckle, trying to lighten the conversation to pry more information from the doctor.
The doctor didn’t smile or react to her remark in any way. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, ”I'm sorry. Call the number the receptionist gave you. That's all I know.” He turned and walked away, leaving her standing with her mouth agape.
When she arrived home, Lisa called the number and got the runaround by several military officers. They told her that she would be notified when she could visit her son once he was ready to receive visitors.
Early the next morning Lisa started her search for Beelzebub. Each time she saw a vender selling anything along the road, she stopped to peruse the sellers. Every day or so someone said they remembered the elderly man with his purple fruit. They remembered the fruit especially since none of them had ever seen it before.
* * *
After a month, the trail seemed to be leading south along Interstate 75.
Finally one day a young teen told her an old man was selling purple fruit only a few days before. Lisa's excitement grew at the thought of finally confronting the human monster at last. She wondered what she would do if she did find him. Stare him to death? Kick him in the balls? She didn't have a weapon, and, even if she had bought a gun, she had never even touched a pistol or a rifle in her life.
One morning while having a cup of coffee at a pancake house, she bought a newspaper and started browsing through it. Suddenly, as she focused on the local section, a headline jumped out at her: Outbreak of Strange Malady from Eating Purple Fruit in Atlanta. The article read:
Thirty-one citizens of an Atlanta, Georgia, suburb were stricken after eating a purple fruit they had purchased from a roadside vendor. Approximately eight hours after eating the fruit, random children from various families went berserk and began to devour other members of their family. The CDC and the FBI are investigating the outbreak that has occurred in a number of small towns along Interstate 75 South. The malady, much like a rabies attack, is not contagious and can only be contracted by the consumption of the fruit, which is a deep purple color on the outside and resembles a pear on the inside. The CDC would not confirm to this reporter how many cases of the apparently incurable disease have occurred. All victims have been transported from the local hospitals to a special disease center in New Mexico. The federal government has enlisted a team of doctors to determine why only some of the people who eat the fruit are transformed into—as one researcher described—“crazed, ravenous ghouls.”
Lisa could not believe her eyes. Her son was not the only one who had killed other people after eating the fruit. The FBI was combing the Southern states, particularly Georgia and Alabama, for an elderly male, about seventy years old, wearing blue jeans, suspenders, and a straw hat, selling the deadly fruit. She wrote down the number to call if she located him.
It was good to find out this new information, but, at the same time, if the FBI had a bulletin out for the old man, she doubted she would ever find him at a roadside stand.
That afternoon she placed ads in several local papers that read Purple Passion Fruit Wanted. Will Pay $100 for a Dozen, with the number to call. She didn't believe for a moment anyone would respond to the ad, but what else did she have to do with the rest of her life?
At eleven o'clock the next day, the phone rang, and, picking it up, she said, “Hello.”
Someone who sounded like a teenager said, “I see in your ad that you’ll pay $100 for purple passion fruit?”
“Yes, I’ve been dying to try some. I've heard it's the best-tasting fruit ever. Do you have some for sale?”
“Not exactly. I don't have the fruit, but how much would you pay to find out where there's a whole grove of it?”
“A whole grove of it!” Lisa blurted out excitedly.
“Are you the police?” the teen asked nervously. “You know the FBI is looking for the old man who sells it.”
“I'm not the police. I just have a bone to pick with the seller. Look, I'll give you $500 to show me where the grove is. Where can I meet you?”
The boy on the phone hesitated and said nothing, apparently pondering his next move. Then he said, “Go to the entrance of the Atlanta Braves stadium. No one should be there today. Wear a red scarf around your neck. If I see a policeman, I’ll split, and you won't get the information.”
As soon as she ended the call, Lisa went directly to her bank, withdrew $500, and placed it in an envelope. She drove to the stadium, parked in the deserted lot, and took a seat on the bench at a bus stop directly in front of the entrance.
Fifteen minutes later she wondered if she had received a prank call since no one had shown up. Then she saw a teenager approaching on a bicycle in the distance. The teen saw her on the bench and pulled his bicycle beside her.
“Did you bring the money?” he asked sullenly.
“You're the one who called?”
“Did you bring the money?” he repeated and looked about nervously for possible escape routes if someone else interrupted them.
Lisa held out the envelope. "I have the money. Where can I get the fruit?”
The boy reached for the envelope, but she pulled it away. “How do I know you'll give me the money if I tell you?”
“How can I be sure you know where the fruit is?”
He took out a picture from his shirt pocket and gave it to her.
Sure enough, it was a picture of a field of purple fruit trees. On the back someone had written an address.
“Well, I fulfilled my part of the agreement, so give me the money. I earned it.”
“Have you seen the old man who sold the fruit?”
“I see him now and then. He used to be my soccer coach. He's been laying low ever since the FBI put his face on a poster in the post office.”
“I care more about finding him than the fruit," Lisa explained.
“Look, I'm going to need more dough for that.”
“Fat chance,” Lisa groused.
“All right, lady, he works at the defense center where they grow the purple fruit trees. Give me the money.”
“That's bullshit. This man is a farmer. He wears a straw hat and looks like my grandfather.”
“That's just a disguise he uses when he sells fruit. He used to be my soccer coach. I know him well. He's no farmer. He's a bigwig at the defense plant. You would
n't even recognize him if you saw him on the street. Give me the money, so I can go.”
Lisa paused, and, somehow believing the rattled teen, she handed over the money.
He grabbed the envelope and took off, looking in all directions for someone who might be following him.
Lisa returned to her car, put the address from the photo in her GPS, and took off. The device indicated the location was only five miles from where she was now.
As she approached from the top of a hill, she saw a sprawling complex that looked like a prison, since it was surrounded by barbed wire with sentries positioned around the perimeter. There was no sign identifying the facility, only one on the wall nearest the fence that read Top Security, No Entry. In a field behind the building, she saw rows of vegetables and fruit trees. Among them was a row of the purple fruit trees. The teen was right about the fruit trees, but was he right about the old man being a top executive at this very facility?
Lisa went to Wal-Mart and purchased a pair of high-powered binoculars. She began her vigil the next morning, armed with a cooler full of water and enough high-calorie snacks to make her a diabetic. The surveillance was extremely tedious, particularly watching everyone who came and went through the binoculars.
Finally, on the second day, she saw a fancy vehicle driven by an older man dressed in a business suit pass through the security gate a little faster than most of the other people—who had to show the guard several pieces of identification. He looked a lot younger than the man who had sold the fruit, but, for some uncanny reason, Lisa thought he could be the old man who wore the straw hat.
At two o'clock that afternoon, she saw the same car exit the gate. She verified the make of the car and the license plate number she had written down that morning. It matched.
She followed the vehicle to a large house in a prestigious development of multimillion-dollar mansions overlooking an enormous lake. The economy rental car she drove stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the other luxury cars in the neighborhood. She was surprised the residential area did not have a security gate, but that lack allowed her to follow the suspect long enough to see him walk right to his door without any problem. Before confronting the man who had ruined her life, Lisa decided to find out all she could about him.
Driving about the back roads that wound through a forest of pines overlooking the lake, Lisa discovered a side road that wound directly above the suspect's home. With her binoculars, she could watch the front, the right side of the house, and the backyard without anyone seeing her.
On the third day she saw the door open on one of the four garage bays, and then a middle-aged woman backed out in a red Corvette convertible. She was a handsome woman and tastefully dressed. Lisa guessed she was probably an upstanding citizen in the community. Lisa assumed this was the man's wife or his girlfriend. Probably the former.
The next day was Saturday. At about 1:00 p.m., a Lincoln Town Car pulled into the driveway. Lisa saw a man and a woman, each about thirty years old, and two children, maybe middle-school age, exit the vehicle.
Through the binoculars she saw the front door swing open, and the defense department executive and the woman she’d seen the day before rushed to meet the young family in the driveway. After some hugs and kisses, they disappeared inside the house. An hour later, she saw them in lawn chairs around a substantial pool in the backyard. It appeared they were having chips and salsa, with margaritas for the adults and soft drinks for the children.
The young family left about six o'clock that evening after what seemed to be a weekend family gathering of food, drink, and communion. Tears rolled down Lisa's face at the realization that she would probably never know this type of family get-together again.
In only a few minutes of surfing the web, Lisa determined Beelzebub’s real name was Harold Baxter. During the next several weeks, Lisa researched his life every way she could. He had risen on a fast track to the top of the research and development department of the army’s Weapons of Mass Destruction Unit, rising through the ranks to become a colonel. He had started as a buck private and achieved a service appointment to West Point. He moved into research as soon as he had graduated. He didn't seem to be a person who would be involved in raising fruit trees. All of his past work related to anthrax and Ebola research. After he had spent thirty years in the field, Lisa assumed he knew how to make people sick and how to kill them.
Checking her messages on her home answering machine, she received a voice mail from a stern no-nonsense army captain. He indicated that she could arrange a meeting with her son since his malady was more controlled now. If she chose, she could have one visitation each month. However, she would have to meet with him at a military base in New Mexico.
Lisa didn't know what to make of this news. Could Brent really be improving? Was it possible he could actually have a viable life in the future? Land a job, get married, and raise a family?
Refusing to dwell on the negative, she arranged to meet Brent one week later at the designated facility in New Mexico. For the first time in a long time, in spite of her previous skepticism, she wanted to believe Brent could be rehabilitated.
After a pleasant flight that morning, Lisa arrived at the airport in New Mexico about three o’clock in the afternoon. She rented a cheap compact Chevy. The rental agent at the desk gave her an odd look when she asked about the rehab center where Brent was. She wondered what the guy behind the counter knew about it that she didn’t.
After about forty minutes she approached what looked like an oasis in the middle of the desert. The white stucco buildings surrounded by pinyon trees, boulders, and scrub brush looked new and were set back off the dedicated road that led to them. The complex of buildings struck her as more like a condominium project than a hospital. Lisa was bubbling over with excitement and anticipation when she parked the car and headed for the entrance.
The atmosphere of the lobby was bright and cheerful, unlike where Brent had been before. After signing in at the front desk, the receptionist called the person who would escort Lisa. Soon a well-dressed young woman appeared from one of the rooms down the hall. Dressed in an impressive beige suit, she introduced herself as Carolyn Tisinger. She didn’t smile or make small talk of any kind but immediately led Lisa to a beautifully appointed room with pleasant modern furniture. She motioned Lisa to one of the four brown leather chairs situated around a coffee table. An urn of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice were on the table.
Lisa took a seat, anticipating the woman would do the same. Lisa hoped they would have a few minutes together so Lisa could ask some questions before Brent joined them. But, to her surprise, the woman remained standing and said coldly, "Brent will be with you shortly.” Afterward she walked briskly away before Lisa could pose the first question.
Lisa had gone to the beauty parlor and was wearing a new dress she had bought specifically for this occasion. She wanted Brent to see her in the best light possible since, during his months of rehabilitation, he had always seen her crying her eyes out with her hair a disheveled mess.
Lisa reached for a cup to pour some coffee, but, when she saw how badly her hand was shaking, she decided not to have any. Maybe later, after she cracked the ice with her son.
Finally the moment came. The door opened, and a different woman escorted Brent to a chair directly across the coffee table from his mother. He took a seat. The young woman, who wore a nurse’s uniform, cracked a smile but then, just like the first woman, turned abruptly and left the room, as if she were trying to avoid something unpleasant.
At first glance Lisa noticed Brent was taller and leaner than before. He had on a casual shirt and Dockers, and looked much like any boy his age. Lisa bolted from her chair and, rushing to her son, threw her arms around him and smothered him with a hug and a heartfelt kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, Brent. I love you so,” Lisa said warmly, her face beaming with new hope after so much time had passed.
Brent continued to sit stoically in his chair, staring in
to space, as Lisa stooped lower to see his face. He didn’t attempt to shrink away from his mother’s warm embrace and sudden burst of affection; he simply ignored her entirely.
Feeling the cool reception, Lisa wondered if she had come on too strong for their first meeting. She backed away and returned to her seat. Brent continued to stare into space from his chair without acknowledging her presence.
Lisa tried to recover from what had become an embarrassing start. “Well, Brent, how do you like your new place?”
Brent continued to stare straight ahead and said nothing. He showed no sign of nervousness and didn’t seem the least bit unstable. Instead, to her surprise, Brent appeared relaxed, confident, and aloof to everything around him.
Periodically she asked Brent a question, and, when she got no response, she simply tried to make small talk during the rest of the hour-long visit. Brent never focused on her and gave no indication he knew she was there. A feeling of disappointment welled up inside of her, and she started to cry.
Her son was no longer violent, but now he was more like the proverbial vegetable than a human being. For all practical matters he seemed brain-dead and stripped of all emotion.
Lisa pushed the intercom button on the table and stood. Brent continued looking at the space on the wall he’d been fixed on since he had sat down. The second woman she’d met returned and, trying not to make eye contact, took Brent’s hand and led him away like a toddler.
Lisa assumed the first woman would return next to escort her out. Even if the unfeeling female tried to give her some bullshit about Brent’s progress, she had no interest in hearing about it.
She stood and went to the doorway. Looking around, she saw a ladies’ room halfway down a long hallway and made her way toward it. She also found a bank of elevators as she passed another hall leading farther to the right, down another long corridor. Hospital personnel wearing green scrubs went about their daily tasks and paid her no mind. She didn’t see anyone who looked like security anywhere. She spied a water fountain adjacent to another elevator bank, walked to it, and pretended to drink while surveying the surroundings to get her bearings.