“Okay,” Wesley replied, nodding. He kept eating, he was starving.
“Mooby Neil showed up with a guy named Shannon Monroe. Skinny and bald, with beady child-molester eyes. Gross looking. I wanted to use a Brillo pad on my eyes! Thinking of touching him made me want to bathe with Clorox. 'Seriously, Patti?' I said to her. She apologized, but I let it go. Truth be told, I was relieved that they both could scare Medusa. Meant I was going to have an early night. Or so I thought.”
Wesley knew better. Beatrice was no angel, but she was not promiscuous either. She’d had two serious boyfriends in her life. The last one, Joshua Flores, a junior high school math teacher. They broke it off last year after he admitted to liking women, but also men. He kept wanting to date Beatrice, but he wanted her permission to see men on the side. She told him no.
“God, you should have see these guys, Wesley! Total loser douchebags! These guys were in their mid-thirties, but they were the most obnoxious, immature men I’d ever met in my life. Farts were released left and right, and stupid momma jokes. Have I mentioned how ugly they were? And Neil, he had moobs!” she said.
“Yes, you did mention that already. Keep going.”
“Okay, we go to a bar Neil goes to, O’Malley’s Pub,” she said.
Wesley had heard of the bar from another mechanic he worked with.
“He said he was a regular there, knew the bartenders. Such a big man. Pfft! Anyways, they offered us drinks, and I accepted, telling them I had a serious boyfriend.”
Neil did have moobs and Shannon was bald. She showed him about ten to twelve selfies in all. Looked like they had fun, Wesley thought.
She continued. “They didn't care, they bought us drinks. I was trying to have fun. We pounded back a couple of shots of tequila, I remember. But, I think that’s where one of them slipped me something, because it goes fuzzy after that. On Saturday morning, I woke up in Patti’s apartment with the worst hangover in my life. Patti swore we didn’t go anywhere besides the bar, then we all went to his house. We were there about ten to fifteen minutes, I think. Neil said he needed to let his dog out of the house to do his business. Then every one went back to Patti’s apartment to have more drinks. She said I was wasted, slurring my words bad. She said that Shannon and her, helped me walk to her bedroom, and they put me in her bed, and that was it for me that night,” Beatrice said.
“Well, she looked after you. Made sure you got to a safe place, in her bed. Right?”
”Maybe, but do you think those fuckers slipped me a pill or two somehow?” she asked.
“Maybe, either one could have crushed pills up and put it in your tequila. Maybe they are the type that needs to drug girls in order to have sex. You said both were fugly."
“But they could have just slipped me the opiates just so I would fail the drug test? Gives them a solid reason to fire me,” Beatrice said.
Conspiracy theory? That sounded a bit too much for Wesley. This was Texas, if a company wanted you gone, HR or the manager would just fired you. Texas is an at-will state. Companies didn’t need a reason. But then again, there seemed to be enough dots, and they did add up, he had to admit, at least a little. There was a beginning of a some kind of picture. “Not saying you’re wrong, but to me, it seems like a lot of trouble to fire you.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I could be blowing all this out of proportion. Patti and I both woke, hungover bad. But Patti did say that she made out with Neil. Which made my hangover worse, the mental picture of that was so gross. She ended up giving him a blow job, but there was a small, tiny problem.”
Wesley stared at her. “What was the tiny problem?”
Beatrice smirked, and said, “Neil had the tiniest little dick she’d ever seen!” She giggled.
Wesley chuckled.
“I was still dressed, and happy that Shannon didn’t rape me, if that was his plan.”
“Yeah, good that he didn’t do that. Let’s finish our dinner and start looking for some jobs you might want to apply to, okay?” Wesley said.
Beatrice smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. I will find another job, fuck them!” she said, digging into her food.
His cousin said that, but he could still see a little sadness on her face. She would need a few days.
CHAPTER FIVE
Her skin was cold
WEDNESDAY—OCTOBER 16TH
Wesley went to Beatrice's apartment, because he left his phone there but it also gave him reason to visit her and not always eat dinner alone. He bought a couple of burgers. No onions and no tomatoes, mustard and or mayo for her. Wesley liked his cheeseburgers with only pickles and mustard; he liked salad, but not on his burgers. He did not like mayo. Mustard, cheese and pickles only. Extra mustard on his burgers was always appreciated. (Extra pickles too!)
He probably should have used the shop’s phone to call her before he visited, but she told him to just come over when ever he wanted; he never needed permission. Same thing applied to her father, but her mother needed to call before coming over, or she would not answer the door. Although they talked just about everyday, Beatrice didn’t like her mother checking on her, judging her. Apparently, females judged other females too much, especially when it came to mothers and daughters. If it were up to her mother, Beatrice would still be at home, waiting to be married. But Beatrice was twenty-four years old, a grown woman; she had to leave the nest once she was financially capable.
Her car was in the parking lot, so she was most likely home. He went inside. All the lights were off in her apartment. Unusual, unless she was already in bed. But it was early to be sleeping. Unless she was sick or something. “Beatrice! I brought burgers. Extra tomatoes on yours!” he said, turning on the living room lights. After putting the bag of burgers down on the dinning table, he grabbed his phone that he'd left the other night. He found it in between the couch cushions, where he had left it.
Then he walked down the hallway to her bedroom. He knocked on her bedroom door. “Beatrice, it’s me, Wesley.”
No answer.
“I’m coming in,” he said, hoping he wasn’t walking in on her with some dude with his schlong exposed. Worse would be seeing her naked. He entered the room, it was dark. He turned on the bedside lamp. He found a bottle of whiskey and pills on her nightstand. He looked over at her, Beatrice was on her back, appeared to be asleep. “Hey, Beatrice.” He grabbed her arm to shake her awake, but her skin was cold.
A wave of cold passed over him. Immediately he knew. “No,” Wesley whispered. Beatrice was dead. He sat on the edge of the bed, confused. Wesley looked over at the pills and booze. There was a note:
Dear Loved Ones,
I am sorry, but I can’t keep going on like this. The pain is too much. It is unbearable. I can’t take the pain anymore. I need to find peace. This is the only way! I am sorry.
Love always, Beatrice.
The handwriting was messy. Sloppy. But he suspected when a person was drunk and loopy on pills, their handwriting would be a little messy.
Suicide though? Not twenty-four hours ago, after they had dinner, she spent about thirty minutes searching for a new job, even sending her resume to a couple of places. She seemed in good spirits; she was good.
He saw her phone on the nightstand and dialed 911. Paramedics came, less than ten minutes later. Once they saw she was gone, they called it in, and the cops arrived fifteen minutes later.
Why Beatrice? Getting fired is nothing! Life goes on. You would’ve gotten a better job!
Last night Beatrice had seemed to be in good spirits. She had mentioned that she was worried about what her boss might say to potential employers. Beatrice had to use her boss as a reference, because it had been the only job she had after graduating from college. She did not believe her ex-boss, Brett Newman, would bad mouth her to any potential employer.
CHAPTER SIX
A funeral today II
SATURDAY—OCTOBER 19TH
He had a voicemail from Beatrice. From the night she died! Was this her
last call she’d ever made? But she couldn’t get through to him, because he’d left his phone again at her place. He listened to the voicemail:
“Hey, Wesley, it’s me!”
At the sound of her voice, is heart leaped up into his throat, too much. He paused the recording quickly. It was good to hear Beatrice’s voice.
Tears blurred his vision for a moment; he rubbed his eyes clear. He looked down at his phone, wanting another moment or two before he played the rest of the voice message.
He pushed the Play button. “I just wanted to let someone know that there is someone knocking on my door!” she said in a hushed tone. Then yelled, “HANG ON! LET ME PUT ON SOME PANTS!”
Someone said something, but Wesley could not make it out.
Beatrice paused for a couple of seconds before continuing. “I checked the peep hole and it’s that guy Neil, from work. Hairy Moobs! He’s out there in the hallway like some psycho stalker! He’s outside my door, Wesley. No telling what that moobed motherfucker wants! He says he wants to talk! Maybe he wants to admit that he set me up by drugging me? Or helped to get me fired! If he does admit to any of it, I’m going to bedroom and get my pistol and shoot him in his tiny little dick!” she said raising her voice a little. “Okay, whatever. I am going to talk to him, but only at the door! Call me back or come right over, now! Talk to you soon or see you soon!
Love you cuz!”
Wesley listened to the voicemail four more times. He couldn’t believe it. Like most people, Wesley had watched plenty of crime drama, or police procedural TV shows. Just Neil's presence would mean that the police needed to investigate him. Maybe there was something to Beatrice’s conspiracy theory after all?
This guy, Neil Connors, was there at her apartment, that night! And she talked to him, or she said she would talk to him in the voice mail. He had to assume Beatrice did talk to him. Even if only through the door. But he could’ve come in under false pretenses and slipped her something again. But Beatrice would’ve been looking out for any funny business from him. He could’ve forced her to take something. But she didn’t have any bruising, and there was no sign of a struggle. The police asked Wesley to look around the apartment to make sure. Everything was in its place.
But Neil could’ve been just some horny drunk dumbass, looking to hook up with Beatrice. However, there was one little problem.
The police would like to hear this voicemail. But first, something bugged him. He had to find out for himself, then he would hand over the voice message over to the cops.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It's in the garage
TELEKINESIS, OR WHAT his momma called his ability, had returned to Wesley a couple days ago.
As a young child, he pushed small toys around little bit. A couple of times in front of his Momma. Then she told him, scaring the crap out of him, about the government coming after him. If he showed his ability to other people—anybody!—the government would come and kidnap him. Take him away from her. Men in black would come after him. Take him to an underground laboratory and study him. Maybe open him up like a lab rat. Since then, he never used the ability ever again.
Over the years, he kind of forgot about it. Then two days ago, on Thursday, at the grocery store. Plasticware was needed at his uncle’s and aunt’s house, because a horde of people were coming over. While in line, thinking about his cousin, Wesley bent over to grab a Milky Way, and the candy bar jumped into his hand from a few inches away. He yelped, and the cashier looked at him as if he was a weirdo. It had scared him, and he tried to play it off the best he could. Quickly, it reminded him of his mother. About the time she made him promise to never show other people his ability; it had been their little secret. Never wanted men in black coming for him, disappearing him forever.
Right after he was born, she got in contact with Aunt Stacey, and Uncle Greg. They helped her and Wesley out for a couple of years, until his mother got on her feet. Before he was born, she’d told him how she was a drug addict and a prostitute. It was the truth, she didn’t hide things from him. Regardless of her past, he still loved his momma. There was one universal truth that Wesley wholeheartedly believed in. And that was: Life was difficult, and one was perfect.
His mother, Gracie Isabel Cole, passed away four years ago. A year before, she had broken a toe. Stubbed it bad at work. The doctor prescribed painkillers. A year later she was found in her car, with a needle stuck in her arm. Overdose. Wesley liked to think she stayed clean long enough for him to become a man and learn how to take care of himself. Then she returned to her old ways. He could never, would never, judge her.
He wanted to give the police Beatrice’s voicemail, and he would, but he needed to satisfy his curiosity first. Wesley did not know where this guy lived, but he knew of a place he might find him.
Wesley got lucky and found Neil. Spotted him at his bar, O’Malley’s. He hung out in his car, for over an hour, before Neil left. Then he drove to an older neighborhood. There were some new homes, but most of the houses appeared to have been built back in the eighties, maybe as far back as the seventies. Before he was born either way.
Neil pulled into a two-car driveway, parking in front of a detached garage. This was his house. It was a sizable non-attached garage, with a door and a window on the side. If he had it—the machine—it’d be in the garage most likely.
He watched the man get out of his car, walking to the mailbox position under the porch light. He grabbed the mail from the mailbox, unlocking the front door of the white single-story house; he entered the house, and turned on the lights. His house.
Wesley took a picture of the front of the house, and street sign—Neil’s address. He then opened up an email. He wrote out the body and saved it as a draft, attaching the pictures just took. He drove away, heading to his apartment. Ate dinner, while watching Breaking Bad reruns. Around midnight, he came back to the house. Neil's car hadn’t moved from the driveway. He was satisfied that this was Neil's house an he was asleep. Wesley then parked one block over. Well-lit area for nighttime, but the streets were silent.
He walked around the corner, back to the house. Wesley moved to the side of the garage to get a peek inside, but the window was covered by an old mini-blind. He needed to get inside, but he didn't want to break (a window) and enter. He was no criminal. But he needed to know. Forcing the fear, of getting caught, aside, he tried pushing on the window. It did not budge. Locked. Next, he tried the door on the side. Like he suspected, it did not budge either. On the door’s handle he noticed a slot for a key. Some homeowners liked to have the ability to use the same key for all the locks to all the entrances of the house and garage. Made it easier—only one key to unlock all locks. He looked around the area around the door, but did not see anything that could hide a key. He chanced it, he went to the front door, and found it. A discolored rock, sitting alone. A fake rock hide-a-key. He grabbed the key and returned to the door on the side of the garage, and it opened the garage side door.
Wesley thought about how easy it was to break in to houses, or in this case, a garage, and that there were a lot of people in the city who used a hide-a-key rock or something similar.
Scared as shit, but he entered the garage. He didn't turn the garage lights on, too risky, might alert Neil or a neighbor. Instead, he used the flashlight function on his phone. It took him almost a minute to find his way around a semi-built motorcycle that was parked directly in front of the door he just entered. By what he could tell it was an old Harley Davidson, Fatboy.
Shining the phone light around the rest of the garage, he noticed it was about about eight-hundred square feet. A decent-sized workshop. He moved along the back wall, shining his phone light on a work bench that stretched the entire length of the wall. There were a lot of tools hanging. Old and new. Some of the older tools looked twenty, maybe even thirty years old, but pristine. This appeared to be a professional workshop. Maybe Neil had a side business? Might’ve just had hobbies.
He kept searching; the machine had to
be here or at Shannon's house. The police would be interested if it was here; if he found nothing, Wesley would check Shannon’s place. And if he didn’t find it still, then he’d drop it.
Moving along the workbench, he stepped up to a machine, but it wasn’t what he was there looking for. Twenty-seconds later, he saw something. Under a small dark blue tarp, down the workbench, another machine. He took a peek underneath and he had found it. It!
This guy was guilty! He took some pictures of the machine and attached them to the draft email he saved earlier. He sent the email to a dozen different people, pictures plus an explanation of why and what he believed. He put his phone back in his pocket, and covered the machine back up. He headed back to the door.
Then the garage lights blinked on. The bright lights caused him temporary blindness; he covered his eyes.
“What the hell?” someone said.
Wesley didn't see the bat coming at his head, smacking the side of it, but he felt it.
Then darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
His presence is bothersome
ALL WOMEN WERE bitches in Neil’s book; he’d learned that as a young man, when his mother left him and Dad for some banker she’d been seeing on the side. Good-old Mom claimed that Dad had verbally abused her and hit her. He never saw his dad hit her. All Neil ever heard, constantly, was his mother complaining about everything. They never had enough money. I want a bigger house! Bigger car! Better furniture! More clothes! His mother never worked a day in her miserable life, but she wanted the life of a princess. Neil was glad when she'd skipped out him and his dad, all those years ago.
From the grave, Beatrice was proving to be a real bitch; her goddamn cousin, Wesley, showed up in the middle of the night, creeping around inside his garage. He did not know what to make of him being here. But his presence meant something. Something Neil hadn't figured out yet.
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