by R. J. Blacks
I now have some new water samples for Dr. Parker so I call her to arrange a meeting and she agrees. When I arrive at the usual meeting spot, a remote area of the parking lot at the Gainesville mall, she’s already there, sitting in her black BMW. I pull alongside her car, get out, and then hand her the plastic bag containing the jars. She hands me a manila envelope with the results from the previous analysis.
“I’m sorry, doesn’t look promising. Couldn’t find anything unusual in that last batch.”
I stand there with my hopes dashed, with nothing to say.
“Maybe the new ones will be better,” she adds, trying to ease the depressed look on my face.
Suddenly a black car drives up and stops right in front of both our cars blocking our path. The driver gets out and strolls toward us, and then, when I see his face, get the most unearthly feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s Damon.
I think about racing back to the cruiser and getting the gun, but it’s too late; he’s right beside us and blocking my path.
“Hello girls,” he says, trying to be charming. “When I saw the PT Cruiser I couldn’t believe it. What a coincidence... running into an old friend.”
He turns his attention to Dr. Parker.
“And you are?”
“Dr. Jessica Parker.”
“A doctor? How impressive.”
“Not an MD. I’m a professor of microbiology, at the university.”
“Impressive nonetheless.”
“And you are?”
“Damon,” he answers.
“Only Damon?” she asks.
“Damon’s the only name that matters.”
“Well then, Damon, pleased to meet you,” she says, and offers her hand out the car window in a well-practiced gesture of friendship. He returns the courtesy and shakes her hand.
“Well, I’ve got to run,” he says. “Nice to meet you Dr. Parker. Maybe the three of us can get together for lunch some time.” He strolls back to his car, starts the engine, and races away.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“Trouble. I’d stay away from him.”
“Don’t worry, when he finds out I’m married with three kids, he’ll lose interest.”
“Okay then, see you next week?”
“Next week’s fine,” she says, and then speeds away.
I scramble to the cruiser, lock the doors, and then place the gun on the seat beside me. If Damon pulls anything funny, I’m prepared to do whatever is necessary, even if I have to shoot him.
CHAPTER 23
I embark on the long trip back to Fargo’s place oppressed by the possibility that Damon may be out there stalking me, roaming around, waiting for just the right moment to ambush me. At any moment I expect him to pull alongside and force me off the road and into the ditch. What could I do if that ever happened? My car would be disabled and I would be at his mercy. And the roads are so deserted he would have plenty of time to do as he pleases.
Thank goodness for the gun. I rest my hand on it every few minutes for reassurance, to make sure it hasn’t moved out of my reach in the event I am forced to use it. But nothing happens and I arrive safely back at the restaurant.
I relate the incident to Fargo and he suggests I file a police report. He takes me to the state police barracks and Detective Bolt invites us to his office. After we file in and take a seat, he shuts the door and sits down behind his desk.
“Did he at any time threaten you?”
“No, not really.”
“Did he threaten Dr. Parker?”
“No, in fact he was quite cordial.”
“Then he’s broken no laws.”
“But I just know he’s up to something. Look what he did to me before.”
“I don’t doubt for a minute the incident in North Carolina happened exactly as you described it. But why didn’t you file a police report back then, when you were up there?”
I relate to him the reasoning behind our decision, that Damon might be a local boy and have powerful connections, people of influence that would believe him over us. He could turn everything around and make us out to be the perpetrators.
“I’m sworn to uphold the law, but if no laws are broken there is little I can do. I’m sorry,” he says.
“I understand.”
“Look, if he ever makes any threats, or even hangs around and harasses you, give me a call and I’ll personally check it out.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, and then exit his office. As we stroll back to the jeep, Fargo turns to address me.
“If you see him around, let me know. I’ll find out what he’s up to, even if I have to beat it out of him.”
“Actually, I’d prefer you stay out of it. Maybe I’m seeing more into this than there is. Maybe he’s really out to make amends.”
“He’s already made amends. In the meantime, avoid going anywhere alone... until this thing blows over.”
“Don’t worry, I keep the gun with me all the time. I feel safe with it.”
“As you wish,” he says, and then we drive back to Fargo’s cabin.
Back in my bedroom, I peer over the lab printouts from the previous samples and corroborate Dr. Parker’s assertions that they are about as exciting as a glass of water. There’s no sign of any contamination. I’m left with an eventuality I had not considered; my research is now effectively shut down until I get the results from the new samples. All I can do is wait, so I redirect my efforts toward the restaurant.
Will is doing a superb job managing the staff in my absence and appears to enjoy it. His proposal for an addition has already been approved by Tribal Council and work is scheduled to begin any day. It would double the size of the dining area, but put additional burdens on all of us, and probably require the hiring of additional help. But the extra revenue is well appreciated and Fargo is using his newfound wealth to remodel the kitchen and bathroom in his house.
The excitement of the new construction and the additional tourist traffic makes time go fast and the next thing I know a week has passed. I call Dr. Parker to get the results of the previous samples, but there’s no answer. I call back an hour later, but the phone just rings and rings and then puts me into her voice mail so I leave a message for her to call me.
A couple of days pass by and still there’s no response. I give myself the excuse she is probably too busy with her students, but secretly, I’m starting to get worried.
It’s now been over a week since I left that first message and still there’s no callback. I’m now calling several times a day and leaving a voicemail each time, but I don’t even have a text message in response. In desperation, I call her once again. The phone rings and rings and rings and then I get the announcement, “Message box full.” It’s obvious something is wrong. Has she lost interest? Is she sick?
I discuss the issue with Will, relate to him my concerns about how Dr. Parker isn’t returning my calls.
“Pay her a visit,” he says.
“I can’t. If someone sees us together, she could get fired, or even sued.”
“Wear a disguise.”
“A disguise?”
“Sure, it’s easy. You lose the blue hair, and then you dress down, so you look like a student.”
The idea intrigues me, so Will and I drive to the local thrift store where I manage to find a worn-out pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a hat big enough to hide my hair. Then I get some hair dye and some whacky cosmetics to have fun with. To make my disguise even more convincing, I pick up a fake nose ring and some temporary tattoos.
“When are you going,” he asks.
“Monday. We’re closed anyway, so it shouldn’t cause you any problems.”
“Never gave it a thought,” he says.
...
On Sunday morning, Will asks me to accompany him to church. I tell him I’m too busy, but he insists, making the unarguable case I need to take some time off to let my mind reset and untangle itself from the daily irritations. He’s right. There’s no den
ying it’s been a hectic couple of weeks and I need to chill out so I take him up on his invitation. He opens the restaurant as usual at 6:00 AM and then tells the cashier and head waitress we’ll be out for a couple of hours and to wing it until we get back.
We drive to a small Catholic church about twenty-five miles away and then, after we’re already seated, discover this particular service is all in Spanish. But it’s only a minor inconvenience since Will and I both understand enough Spanish to know what’s going on most of the time.
After the service, we step out the front door and into the bright morning sunshine caressed by the refreshing breeze of a cool March day. A woman, about my height, with black hair, and a smile that could tame an alligator, approaches us and stands in front of Will. From the intense gaze between them, it suddenly becomes apparent this is not a chance encounter, and there is much more than a casual friendship going on here. I’m flabbergasted and speechless so I blurt out the first stupid thing that pops into my mind.
“You know each other?”
They give each other a smile and then Will responds.
“This is Juanita.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, and offer my hand in a formal gesture I picked up years ago and mindlessly do out of habit. We shake hands and then I blurt out the second stupid thing that comes to mind.
“Are you two going out?”
“I’m hungry,” Will says. “Let’s go have breakfast.”
No one objects so he takes Juanita by the hand and leads us to his SUV. I climb into the back seat relinquishing the front seat to Juanita. Will takes us to a Tex-Mex diner fifteen minutes up the road that, from the number of cars in the parking lot, appears to be doing a brisk Sunday business. Inside, it’s bustling with families and their kids so we ask for a booth in a far corner and the hostess gracefully accommodates us. I order an iced tea and a Western Omelet brimming with a generous helping of red bell peppers and the others do the same.
“So... where did you guys meet?”
“Juanita and I go way back, from when I was a SEAL, on shore leave. Met her at the local food co-op where she was working. My mother had sent me to buy ‘three sisters’ but I didn’t know what that was and couldn’t find a sign with that name on it. I wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles until Juanita realized I needed help and came to my rescue. She politely explained that ‘three sisters’ was the traditional Indian name for corn, beans, and squash. I told her I lived in Georgia up until I joined the Navy and my dad, even though he was Creek, wanted to live like white folks. He didn’t like my mother filling my head with ‘useless Indian folklore’ as he called it. So then Juanita took my hand, led me to the counter, and handed me a fruit drink she made herself. And while I stood there, sipping that fruit drink, she patiently recited the whole legend to me. I got to tell you, the minute she hit me with those beautiful eyes, and that addictive smile, I knew I wanted her.”
“Go on.”
“Well, we dated a bit, but it never worked out because I was here for only two weeks, and then I’d be gone for eight months. When I got out, up in Philadelphia, I often thought of her, but was ashamed of being homeless. You see, I used to tell everyone how, when I got out of the Navy, I’d be educated, have money, be successful. I couldn’t bring myself to come here; I was embarrassed.”
“But you’re here now, and everything worked out.”
“Thanks to you. Remember when you asked me to come to Florida, because you were afraid to go yourself, and that you needed someone experienced, someone strong, to show you the way?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I always wanted to go, but didn’t have the courage to take that first step. Your drive and enthusiasm was the shot in the arm I needed. Without you, I’d still be up there, feeding pigeons on a park bench, and begging for quarters.”
“And now you’re a restaurateur,” I say.
“I guess you can say we fed off each other’s energy.”
“I’m so glad for both of you.”
Will wraps his arm around Juanita and pulls her close, and then she goes on to explain how she came here when she was only five, how her father left their ancestral home in Laguna Pueblo in New Mexico, near Albuquerque, looking for work as a migrant worker, trying his best to give the family a better life. Her mother had been active in the mission at Laguna and often talked about going back. But he always wanted to stay one more year, which turned into ten, and then into twenty, and is now going on thirty. So after a few years, when it became apparent this would be their home forever, she joined the local church and raised her family in a book she loved deeply, the Bible.
“I can see why you two get along so well,” I say.
Will takes the little black book out of his pocket and holds it up for all to see.
“Amazing little book. Always comes through in my time of need.” And then he and Juanita gaze at each other with an all-knowing smile that makes me suddenly feel like a third wheel. I redirect my attention to my omelet and then sip on my iced tea, glancing around the room in a lame attempt to make myself invisible. But after a few moments, life returns to normal and I politely wish Juanita all the best.
Will drops her off at a small house set back in a field planted with cabbage, and as we drive away, I ask him why he didn’t tell me he was seeing someone.
“Well, you know how these things go. Sometimes they don’t last.”
“But you could have told me she would be here today.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise, see your reaction when you saw her for the first time.”
I tell him what a nice couple they’d make and how happy I am he now has a special person in his life.
“Yeah. Juanita’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
I nod in agreement and then we quietly make the trip back home.
...
Monday arrives and time for my trip to Gainesville. The first order of business is to get rid of my blue hair so I dye it black. Then I place some fake tattoos on my wrists and neck, and slip into the jeans and flannel shirt we picked up at the thrift store. I lighten my complexion with foundation, darken my eyelids to excess, color my lips bright red, and then install the nose ring. To erase any vestige of my former self, I apply black nail polish over the blue I normally wear, tie my hair into a bun, and push it up under the hat to give the illusion I have short hair. As I gaze into the mirror, I see a person I don’t recognize. But will it work on others?
Will and Juanita are in the front room watching TV so I saunter in, swinging my butt and shoulders in an exaggerated manner, like a hooker on skid row. As I pass by, they laugh hysterically.
“If I didn’t know it was you, I’d swear you were someone else,” Will says.
“So it works?”
“Totally.”
Will reaches into his pocket and hands me his car keys.
“Here, take the SUV. Someone might recognize the PT Cruiser. Juanita and I aren’t going anywhere.”
Will winks at Juanita. She looks away in a blush, waving him off with her hand.
I get in the vehicle and begin the two-hour trek to Gainesville. To pass the time, I practice a southern accent, thinking it would make my act more convincing. But it’s so bad I’m certain any authentic southerner would see right through it and scoff.
I arrive at the university at 11:00 AM and park in one of the free student lots. Classes are in full swing and the grounds teeming with students, and my disguise allows me to blend right in. And then, from out of nowhere, this guy in a Gothic outfit starts walking alongside me. He’s got spiked red hair, chains hanging off his shoulders, and a diamond piercing through his lip.
“Mind if I walk with you?” he asks.
“I’m kind of in a rush,” I say.
“I can walk fast.”
“Look... you’re a nice guy, but I’m sorta seeing someone right now.”
“I just want to be friends,” he says.
Here I am, already nervous for the meeting with Dr. Parker, and now some guy comes out of nowhere and aggravates me even more. I have to get rid of him.
“What’s your favorite place?” I ask.
“Campus game room.”
“Okay great. I’ll meet you there at three.”
“Sweeet. Three it is.”
I see the building with Dr. Parker’s office and sprint across the grass leaving the guy back at the sidewalk. He seems to be confused because he just stands there gazing at me. As I open the door, I peek back at him and see he’s gone. I don’t exactly condone deceit, but this guy wouldn’t take a hint. Too bad. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I make my way through the building and into the basement. I had gotten the office number from the university website and, as expected, her name was on the door. Inside there’s a casually dressed woman in jeans and a tee shirt, about my age, sitting at the desk marking papers. She’s probably a research assistant.
“When does Dr. Parker have hours?” I ask.
“I’m Dr. Parker.”
“I mean... Dr. Jessica Parker.”
“I’m Jessica Parker.”
“Perhaps I have the wrong department. I’m looking for Dr. Jessica Parker, Professor of Microbiology.”
“Yes, may I help you?”
Confusion comes over me and I don’t know how to respond.
“Is there anyone else in the university that goes by the name Dr. Parker? Maybe I have the first-name wrong.”
“Not that I’m aware of. I’m the only Dr. Parker.”
“The woman I’m seeking is about forty, maybe forty five. She’s always elegantly dressed, carries a Gucci handbag, and drives a black BMW. Does that sound like anyone you know?”
The woman freezes and stares at me with her mouth open.
“There’s only one person in the world that could say what you just said. You must be Indigo Wells.”
