by David Kersey
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE
“So Brownley was a fictitious name. Thought so anyway.” Sheriff Sims suspicioned it from the start. He also knew the pursuit of David Jones was a waste of time and energy. No, it was someone else. All of the Brownley’s in Florida had been screened. None matched up. The guy paid in cash at Uncle Joe’s and was not there to fish. That’s all he needed to know. Brownley was an alias. Something Katzenberger said planted an idea, though it was probably a stretch. “When people trade in cars, they either stay on the dealer lot or get sold to an auction house. Sarah, get me a list of auction houses in Florida. We need to see if there’s been a switch of vehicles. Also, alert Georgia HP to check the same, and Alabama too. We might turn up something.”
“Buck?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Are you excited? I am.”
“Cassie, you mean about the dog coming, Bblackie?”
“Of course. He is supposed to be able to talk. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What do you mean you guess? What’s up with you?”
“What if you like him more than me, Cassie?”
“You big baby! Nothing, never, ever, will come between us. You got that?”
+++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++
Edward Evans cruised the many parking areas around campus. The yellow Ford Focus was not in the same lot as yesterday, or any other parking lot. He was coming up empty. Maybe she didn’t have class every day. He made a second circuit through the nine parking areas. On the second go around her car was parked in almost the same exact spot as yesterday. It was her car, it had the same dent in the front quarter panel as he’d seen yesterday. Relieved, he chose a parking stall in another row, shut off the car, and waited.
He opened his laptop. The visit he had last night from Sharona Jackson disturbed him. He had another episode. He had hoped, beyond hope, that his seeing her in the hospital bed in the throes of death would put to an end to the nightmares. It hadn’t. His bed was wet from profuse sweating, and he had felt nauseous more than at any other episode. It was time he faced the music. He googled post-traumatic stress disorder and was surprised by the hundreds of links Mr. Google had ready for him. Yes, he had cancer, and it was probably going to kill him, or the cops would, but he had more going on than that. He had known it for a long time. He didn’t want to face it. It made him look weak.
He read through the links while continuously checking on the Ford Focus. He opened the second page of links. More of the same; the symptoms, the help available, the drugs that could assist, and so on. Most all of the links said the same thing with only slight variation. He was about ready to close the computer when he opened a link from the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Just more of the same, until he read…….
He glanced up and saw Joan Robertson approaching her car. He slammed the lid down on his computer and started the car. She pulled out. He was close behind. What he had just read made him want to get this deal over with in Little Rock in a hurry. He had to check himself. Don’t do another Cramer screw up. Take your time, Evans. He was excited, almost laughing as he followed his prey. She headed south on University Avenue, then took a right followed by an immediate left which led to the on ramp of Highway Five. He followed her for two miles, then he saw her left turn blinker. She slowed, waited for traffic to clear which put him right on her bumper. She turned onto S. Woodrow Drive, as did he, but he hoped there would not be many more turns. She would spot him and become curious, even worried. Seven blocks later she pulled into the driveway of an old, small 20’s era double, or what some call duplexes. He drove past and stopped in the next block to park. He had noticed there were no other cars in the drive she chose, although there was a car at the drive of the other side of the double. Tiny quarters, he thought, two bedrooms if that many. Maybe she lived alone. Almost too small for two. He guessed around 800 square feet, about twice the size of a modern motel room.
Evans couldn’t help himself. He opened the lid and the article was still there, waiting for him to take in its full, glorious meaning. What a perfect setup. A place for him to live, get help, and bag a two-banger. Two sluts in one. What in the world did he do to deserve such a wonderful gift? He didn’t have Marlene Johnson on his list, but he sure did the other one, the Davis woman. Johnson sure as hell qualified to make his list. He would have found her eventually anyway. And what an incredibly small world. The Sweetwater, Tennessee target was miraculously deposited right into his lap. What a godsend to have read this. It would save him a lot of time searching fruitlessly in Tennessee. What a lucky man he was. He opened the webpage that was referenced in the article: Buck’s Canine Training Facility. A picture of Marlene Johnson and John Christianson, and a golden retriever. A telephone number, an email address, and map insert. He skipped over all the rest of the platitudes, but did notice in the bulleted items PTSD assistance. That’s all he needed, right there in one spot.
It was just after three pm. More than three hours until dark. He drove to the Days Inn to check out for he would be leaving Little Rock tonight. As we was packing up his things, he decided to do Indianapolis on the way, Beech Grove to be exact, the childhood home of one of his favorite actors, Steve McQueen. Cancer took him too. He would be Fred Ferand there, having chosen that instead of Fard Farkle. So when he called the dog place number, he would introduce himself as George Garrison.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I saw the Plain Dealer article and thought I’d call.”
“Oh, I haven’t read it yet, I should look it up. It just ran today I guess.”
“Yes, it’s a very nice article. I’m an army veteran and have post-traumatic stress. Can you help me out?”
“We’re not quite ready for that yet, sir. We could be in a month if that would be of interest.”
“I’m in tough shape, ma’am. I’d hoped it would be considerably sooner. It’s driving me crazy, seeing the same thing over and over again, and watching my buddies die. How much do you charge?” He needed to shift her negative bias, like telemarketers are trained to do, by shifting to another subject that requires something other than an objection.
“There will be no charge when we are ready, but we are just not there yet. I’m sorry. Could I have your name and number to contact you in the future?”
“Yes, of course, but first, isn’t there something you could do? I love dogs and know how to train them.” He took a chance with shifting her again with a flat out lie but it might open the door a little wider.
“I hear you, but I have an employee already and can’t use another one right now. Tell you what, leave me your name and number and I’ll try to work something out. Maybe I can fit you in if you don’t mind some hardships while we are getting ready. I can’t pay you a dime I hope you understand.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful. And I read about your employee, her name was in the article. I expect no wage, ma’am. My name is George Garrison, Sergeant Garrison,” he lied, “and here’s my cell number.”
“Ok, Sergeant Garrison, I will give you a call in a day or two. I need to work some things out in order to accommodate you. Ok?”
“Perfect. And thank you, whatever you can do to help me would be much appreciated, and I hope I can help you out when I get there. Sounds like you could use another set of strong hands. I was a carpenter before the service, by the way. Goodbye, and hope to hear from you soon.” He had used the closer, the thing that makes a consumer beg for whatever you’ve got that will make them happily use it until it tragically becomes a massive failure.
He hung up, satisfied. Happy actually.
He finished packing his car and left the Days Inn forever. It was another hour til dark. Didn’t matter. He’d wait right where he was before, a block north of the little Robertson piece of junk. To pass some time he went through the drive-thru of a Burger King. A whaler with fries and a Coke. He would need the nourishment. It was a long way to Indiana. He washed a prednisone down with the nearly
empty Coke. Time for action.
He waited past twilight. He needed total darkness. The knife was safely tucked in place under his black windbreaker, the sheathed blade down his black pants. At dark he began the block long walk, only he was on the other side of the street from his target. No streetlights. Good. The yellow car was still in the same place. He walked past his destination by the distance of two similar doubles then crossed the street. He was testing for barking dogs that might alert snoopy eyes to peek outside their windows, and there were none so far. He slipped on the thin plastic gloves. At her driveway he noticed there was a door on the side of the house, which probably led to a kitchenette. He would test it.
The interior light was off in the kitchen if that is what it was. He stepped up two concrete steps to the door and slowly tried the handle. It was unlocked. He slowly pushed on the door and it unfortunately loudly creaked and groaned, probably from years of the house settling.
“Hey, honey, I’m in the bathroom. Come on in.”
Damn, that meant she was expecting someone, and her voice was calm, so whoever it was she expected was due at this approximate time. And honey probably indicated a man, though she might go the other way. He had little time to waste. He was in the kitchenette. The living room was adjacent, illuminated by a single candle on a coffee table. The floor creaked beneath his feet. At the far left of the living room he saw a light shining on the hardwood floor from under a closed door. The bathroom. He pulled the knife and stuck the sheath in his pants pocket. He turned the knob of the bathroom door. She was in the bathtub, naked as a jaybird. She saw him, her mouth opened in shock, then screamed and began to scramble, slipping and sliding. Too late. He grabbed her brunette hair with his left hand and jerked her head back, then sliced her neck, right to left. As in the other cases, she grabbed for her neck in the vain effort to live, her legs kicking frantically. He pulled the rubber plug so the water would drain out. He wanted the cross to be perfect, he needed her stomach to be exposed from under the water. He waited for the water to subside below her belly while she kicked and contorted, then carved his art work. He stood back and watched her still cling to a tiny piece of life, her legs barely moving now, and then her human existence was gone just like the red water would soon find another resting place. Done, though her dead eyes were still fixed on him, like she had taken his image with her to wherever the angels were escorting her soul. Take that Obama.
He walked leisurely toward his car/truck/SUV whatever, was almost there when he saw his shadow in front of him. Car headlights from behind him. He turned to see a car pull in behind the dead woman’s yellow Ford Focus. Surprise! On to Indianapolis, Mr. Fred Ferand. He hadn’t been this happy in years.