~~~~~
“If that’s the way you want it to go, then I’ll do it that way,” Whiteside said.
“I’ve got your back, Son. You’ll be much happier with this plan. You’ll see. Kill the lights at the next stop sign.”
Whiteside complied with the order. It seemed odd to allow someone or something to implement a last minute plan after so many years of borderline obsessive compulsive disorder. Whiteside was, after all, a control freak, and he knew it. He accepted it, and he almost cherished it. After his past, he swore he’d dictate the course of his life and not end up like his parents. He saw nothing wrong with wanting, getting, and maintaining control. Life was a power struggle, and he held the power. But, here he was, listening to a dog. Not hearing a strange voice coming from a dog, but following instructions from a dog, willingly and without reservation. If the boys at assassin school could see him now!
He drove the car another 200 feet and pulled into a well-lit Wal-Mart parking lot and stopped the Mercedes in front of the lawn and garden section. He got out of the car, leaving the stun gun and pistol in the glove box. The voice assured him these devices would not be necessary this evening. Before tonight he would have lost his mind at such a wild notion, but tonight it was business as usual. He opened the rear door, and Bernie jumped out onto the blacktop. He stretched his front legs out and arched his backside up in the air. He rocked forward and shook his massive head from side to side, rattling the dog collar as the tags bounced against each other.
“I like car rides as much as the next dog, but man oh man, it’s good to stretch out and sniff the air.”
“How’s it smell tonight?” Whiteside asked.
“It smells like change, Buddy Boy. There’s a turn in the air tonight.”
“So we’re on foot from here on out?” Whiteside inquired.
“Yes, sir. There’s a path that winds through the trees to the west of the stadium. It’s the only way up to the parking lot without being seen. And tonight I want to open your eyes and keep the others in the dark for a spell.”
“O.K.” He didn’t know what else to say. His subservience proved stronger than his will to call the shots. He longed for the swirling brown and yellow mixture that encased him a state of euphoric bliss back in the car. Maybe it was that intoxicating experience that he desired and kept him following a talking St. Bernard.
Bernie shuffled along through the parking lot and headed up a grass hill behind the store. The store was open 24 hours, but at this hour there was no activity in the parking lot or behind the building. As they walked up the hill, Whiteside instinctively looked behind him and scanned the area for any activity. Empty tractor trailers sat motionless alongside stacks of wooden pallets, a lone fork lift, and an occasional strip of shrink wrap blowing in the breeze. He followed Bernie as they passed a beleaguered playground that had one slide and half a seesaw. The pea gravel that covered the playground was littered with Pabst Blue Ribbon beer cans. Whiteside surmised a local high school group had used it as a drinking spot much earlier in the night.
They continued on a worn grass trail that twisted through aspen groves and ponderosa pines and came out along the right side of a baseball field. They walked along the back fence and proceeded down the right side of the field which was lined with blue spruces.
“You doing alright back there, Son?” Bernie asked.
“Surprisingly well, considering I’m well outside my box.”
“That, and you’re talking to a dog,” Bernie said. Whiteside smiled at the absurdity of the last couple days and where they had taken him. It was at that point he realized that this facial expression was unfamiliar to him. How long had it been since he’d smiled? Is it normal to never smile, he thought? The smile dissipated and a furrowed brow replaced it. Lost in his inner angst, he didn’t realize that Bernie had come to a complete stop in front of him. His shins butted up against Bernie, which caused him to lose his balance. In a concerted effort to avoid falling on the dog, he spun his body to the right and crashed against the chain link fence on the edge of the field.
“Damn, Son. We’re trying to be stealthy, you know. You’re making about as much noise as a grizzly stirring through a metal trashcan.”
“Sorry,” was all he could mutter back. He lay perfectly still, trying to see if anybody noticed the disturbance. After 30 seconds he asked, “Is everything clear?”
“Afraid not, Son.”
The Bernie Factor Page 39
