by David Kersey
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
The dark blue one would do. A 2008 Jeep Patriot, small for an SUV but more cargo space than his Olds Alero which the salesman seemed happy to have in trade. “Great gas mileage,” the salesman had said, “and tight as a drum. Lots of good years left. You’ll be very happy with this little honey.” Yeah right, Minnick thought. The paperwork couldn’t happen fast enough. But eventually he was on the road, heading west to rendezvous with Sharona Jackson, though she wouldn’t know it.
After dinner all of us went outside for a walk, and for Cassie and me to take care of business, though we do that separately since she likes her privacy. Kind of brisk, maybe fifty degrees, but felt good. John led us to the garage and uncovered the ATV. “Holy moly,” Tillie shouted, “looks like the ones we had in Iraq, ‘cept ours was camouflaged and constantly muddy. And we had Agrale Murruas, you know, the Brazilian built ones. This one is much nicer than those rattletraps. Wow, I just love your collection of wheels, Mr. John.”
“John, Buck has asked me to take his group on a hayride. Do you mind?”
“Wait, Miss Marlene, how do you know he wants to go on a hayride, and don’t do it til I get back? An’ what do you mean by his group?”
“Well, it’s like this Tillie. You said Bblackie talks to animals, right?”
She snuck a quick look at John and tensed up a little. “Yes ma’am,” now regretting she had ever brought it up.
“So does Buck.” I barked once but I knew it didn’t lend much to the conversation. But I sure did want to hear more about this dog who could talk. Please don’t let him be like Raspy that knows everything that could possibly be known.
“What?” Only she stretched the word out kind of like Mort does.
“So does Cassandra, but we call her Cassie.”
“Noooo, you all are full of stuffin’.”
“And so do several other animals. John, let’s ride out to the clearing. We’ve not ridden in this after dark, it will be fun.” I barked once. Tillie looked over at me.
“Is he talkin’ with you?”
“Kind of. He barks once for yes and twice for no.”
“I’ll be a cat in heat. Oops, sorry Cassandra.”
“Jump in, I think we can make it through the hardwoods. We’ll soon find out,” John said.
We did make it through the corridor. The headlights gave an eeriness to the passage through the tall trees like in a spooky movie. The barren tree branches resembled alien arms anxious to snatch the unsuspecting. Fun stuff. When we arrived at the clearing, John drove the ATV around the seats of the circle members.
“This is where the animals meet to talk,” Marlene said. Then she reeled off the six animals and one bird that met here with Cassie and me.
“I don’t rightfully know what to say. I sure do wish I could see that happen.”
“I imagine you will at some point. Now, tell me about Bblackie.” Yeah, I thought.
++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Minnick was now Don Derby. He had arrived in Memphis after a grueling “you can’t there from here” journey through the winding back roads of Georgia and then Tennessee. What was 320 miles for a bird was two full tanks of gas in his “fuel efficient” four cylinder laugher that Jeep passed off on those without much moolah. No wonder the car salesman’s last words were “Good luck.” Nevertheless, he made it to Memphis and the car/truck/SUV, whatever it was, wasn’t smoking from under the hood.
Jackson lived in one of those unique situations where her street was in Mississippi, Olive Branch, MS to be exact, yet the cross street that led into her neighborhood was in Tennessee. The east-west cross street was named Stateline Road. How imaginative. Derby drove through a rather large apartment complex inappropriately named The Plantation which had two entrances; one off Riverdale Road on the west side, the other at Stateline Road at the north. The rental office was situated at the latter where you could spit into Tennessee if the wind was right. He saw a sign at the office that promoted one, two, and three bedroom rentals, which told him Sharona probably was not rolling in the clover, and that was not at all discomforting to him. But he had to admit the complex was clean and well kept, and the cars in the lots were not the “Cash for Clunkers” that he had expected to find. A place for those at the entry level of upward mobility he supposed. The phone directory had surprisingly listed her full name and gifted him the address of 412 Plantation Crossing Drive. He parked in the lot of another building across the street from her address, and watched. He would not rush this one, even if she got into his car and begged him to kill her. No, he would not be hasty, he needed to have a chat with her.
He felt the demon gaining access to his mental faculties. His hands were sweating. His heart began to pound just like it had a thousand other times, often raising him up from sleep only to see his bedroom transform into the horrendous terrain of the Korengal. Slow motion drizzle of sand cascading on a diagonal, downward from left to right, and through it, the black face of a woman, mouth wide open, closing, opening, slow motion, yet no sound, none at all. The pain in his groin worsened. That’s where the demon lived, in that cancerous region, and the demon had claws, sharp ones, scratching to obtain new territory. Derby reached for the pill that was only supposed to be taken with eight ounces of water and in the morning with a meal. Didn’t matter. He swallowed the prednisone and wished it luck. He moved the seat back, found the recline lever, and laid back to either die or suffer through another unwelcome episode. Sleep mercifully found him.
He was awakened by a knocking on his car window. Dazed, he fumbled for the lever and rose up to see that it was dark outside. He rolled down the window and saw a badge pinned to a dark blue shirt.
“What’s your business here, mister?” Said the badge wearer.
“Oh, uh, I was waiting for Sharona and I guess I fell asleep.”
“I guess you did. You’ve been here for several hours. If you mean the Sharona that was in the wheelchair you won’t find her here.”
“Oh, what do you mean?” Derby was confused and still attempting to find the egress out of dreamland.
“You must not know her very well. She’s always been in bad shape but lately it’s gotten real bad for her. She’s in the Veteran’s Hospital and no one expects her back here, ever, if you know what I mean.”
“Well I guess I am behind the times. Thank you for telling me that.”
“You move on now, you got no business in here, you hear?”
“Yes, yes, moving on.” He reached down and started the car/truck/SUV whatever. As he pulled out of the lot, he noticed the badge get into a golf cart to move on out to his next crisis.
He pulled into the Waffle House. He needed coffee, and the thought of country ham and grits didn’t sound all that bad. And maybe the grits slinger would know the location of the hospital. He checked his watch. Already past visiting hours he supposed. He wasn’t sleepy now, but he would not spend this evening sight-seeing Memphis. After dark this town was too dangerous even for serial killers. So Travel Lodge it would be for a totally crumby night. Didn’t matter.
The next morning he drove up I-69 and took the Jefferson Avenue exit. The young lady at the Waffle House was spot on. 1030 Jefferson was the V.A. Medical Center. Busy parking lot, must be a lot of wounded warriors suffering inside. He debated. Better not take the knife, there might be a metal detector. He could always come back with it if the coast was clear.
“I’m here to visit with Sharona Jackson.”
“Friend or relative?”
“We were in the same company in Afghanistan, just coming to pay my respect.”
“You’ll have to sign in.”
“That’s fine.” Don Derby was ready to visit room 411. More than ready, anxious the better term.
He peeked inside the room. It was a single. He had expected a double occupancy. She was hooked up to an I.V. and a heart monitor and covered up to her neck with a hospital sheet. She slowly turned her head to focus on her
visitor.
“Pull up a chair and sit close. I don’t see too good.” He did as instructed. “You kinda look familiar, who are you?”
She didn’t look familiar at all to him. Her face was sallow, drawn, and bony. Her eyes looked like cracked marble floating in cream turned bad. “Corporal Minnick. You remember the name?”
She looked at him for a good while before responding. “Afghanistan?”
“Yes, you watched me get hit with mortar fire, then disappeared. Remember that?”
He noticed the heart monitor. The numbers were changing, upward.
“You’re the one that caused all my problems. Yes, I remember you, even dream about you if you want to call it that.” Her speech was slow, deliberate, and groggy. Speaking was an effort for her.
“What happened? Why didn’t you tell someone to come get me?”
“Mister, you really don’t know?” Her feeble hands reached down on top of the sheet and her fingers began curling it closer toward her head an inch at a time. “You see that?”
She had no legs. Nothing but stumps that ended somewhere above where her knees should have been. His eyes looked away.
“You wasn’t the only one that got hit that day. I ran for the medic and one hit behind me. That’s why you see this.” She pointed with both skinny hands toward her absence of legs. “And now the Reaper’s coming cause of it.”
Minnick looked down at his feet. No, he didn’t know. Why hadn’t he known?
“I wish I would have left you there, might have had a normal life.”
“I’m sorry, Corporal, I didn’t know. I thought you left me to die and I’ve hated you ever since.”
“Same here, Minnick. I’ve wanted to find you and kill you. I screamed and screamed at you to wait until the firing stopped, but I ran anyway and look what it got me. Now go away and leave me to die in peace.” She turned her head to look away. The monitor was still climbing.
“I think you better leave, sir.” He turned to see a nurse who had been standing in the doorway.
“Yes, just leaving.” He looked at Sharona Jackson and wondered if it would be for the last time, and then he left. She was not long for this side. It would be the last time he would see her, at least physically. As he rode the elevator he wrestled with himself. He didn’t feel like being Don Derby at the moment. Yet Obama had to stop the insanely sinister nonsense. He would continue.
The dilemma would be where. Indianapolis was an option, or Sweetwater, or Little Rock. Pensacola was still out. He unfolded his map once inside the whatever. Little Rock it would be because he was close by, just 130 miles away. A two hour trip for Edward Evans, formerly Don Derby the humanitarian, formerly Charlie Cramer the screw up, formerly Bill Brownley the fake fisherman, formerly Alan Abrams the alligator feeder. Joan Robertson beckoned him from Clinton’s old haunt, Little Rock. He had been there years ago and been thoroughly unimpressed, he remembered while travelling west on I-40.