The Accident

by James Kipling

  “I will see you at eight, sharp,” Heath assured Wendy.

  “Your first payment will be released into your bank account within the hour” Wendy told Heath. “I will see you at eight. Make it clean. The local law enforcement in this town can become very problematic. I need to manipulate the badges very carefully.”

  “Understood,” Heath said, and then began waving goodbye to Wendy. “Well, I need to get my fish before the rain starts again. It was nice seeing you, Lisa. Take care.”

  “Take care, Mr. Jones,” Wendy flashed a sickening smile and walked back toward the fruit section. The chubby girl behind the deli counter saw Wendy and Heath part ways. Heath looked like such a nice old man, and Wendy, wow, she sure was stylish. Oh, how the chubby girl despised her dreary life, and dreamed of looking and being like Wendy. Looks were very deceiving.

  Wendy fished around for some apples, and then carefully walked to the self-check-out area, paid for the bags of oranges and onions she had put into her cart, and left the Kroger. Thirty minutes later she was parked back in the black van. “Release partial payment. Authorization code 2541AQP934.” she spoke into her cell phone. “Employee Heath has been hired.”

  A cold voice, assuming Wendy's demand had been approved by Roger Alden, replied: “Verifying authorization code...code verified...locating employee 'Heath' in gray zone data base...employee located...releasing money...money released. Requesting personal data stamp.”

  Wendy fiddled with her cell phone, logged into the Intelligence Profile server, and sent the cold voice a personalized data stamp that held all of her information. The stamp was placed on the transaction like a tick, and sealed with a special code. “Will request release of complete payment at 2000 hours.”

  “Request has been logged.”

  Wendy tossed down her cell phone. She hated talking to the lifeless puppets working in the shadows; young kids with no souls who dreamed of turning America into some kind land that made North Korea resembled a pleasant vacation land. “Alright, Mrs. Mayes, instead of killing you as planned, in order to avoid trouble with Roger Alden, I'm going to ensure you spend the rest of your life in prison, where I can keep a close eye on you.” Wendy wanted to kill Jessica, but feared her actions would cause Roger Alden to become furious. Of course, there were ways to bypass Roger Alden's anger by making Jessica's death appear accidental, like suicide, but Wendy wasn't willing to face an examination board, and go through months of agonizing testing. While it was true her mind had been planning the murder of Jessica Mayes, at the last moment, her mind concluded that framing the woman for murder and having her locked away in prison was a better, safer option. Stepping on Roger Alden's toes at the moment wasn’t a smart plan. “Time to proceed.”

  With skilled and quick fingers, Wendy focused her attention on a lap top sitting on a metal counter, and brought up a secured data base. Without wasting a second, she logged into the data base that held the faces of every single American citizen, their names, ages, addresses, weight, height, and other basic information. Wendy quickly brought up the face of a deceased man named Walter Hicks, who had been identified as a homeless man in Los Angeles. Walter had been found dead the year before in an alley, due to a drug overdose. “Perfect,” Wendy grinned, clicking on a red arrow attached to Walter’s file, and watched a more detailed file of the man appear on the laptop screen. “No wife, no children, parents deceased, no brothers or sisters, high school dropout, a few dead-end jobs, homeless for twenty-seven years...perfect.” Wendy quickly closed the file, clicked on a blue box at the top of the screen, and waited for a security form to appear. The form, once filled out and approved by a security program, rather than a person, because keeping track of over three hundred million lives was far too much for the human mind to control, Wendy would be allowed the authority to add a file, delete a file, or change a file. Only senior, high-ranking, agents had the authority to add, delete or change a file. However, Wendy was very clever, and had managed to hack into the file of an Agent Rainey and steal her information. Agent Rainey, a high-ranking woman who was assigned to London, had dared to scold Wendy in public during an intense meeting. Wendy had vowed revenge on the woman, but decided to cleverly alter her revenge to serve her own hidden agenda. “Alright, Mr. Hicks, it's time you became the personal psychiatrist of one Mrs. Mayes.”

  Wendy stopped typing, rubbed her neck, and prepared for no less than four hours of solid work. She hacked into the Harvard database, created a fake file for Walter Hicks, attached medicine and psychiatry to his otherwise meaningless life, created years of study and graduation, and then moved on to creating a fake life for the man. “Never married, known for being an activist, lived in Pittsburgh, worked for the Jefferson Regional Medical Center...” Wendy worked steadily. She hacked into the human resources department at the Jefferson Regional Medical Center and created a fake employment profile for Walter Hicks. An hour passed, and then two, and then three. By the time Wendy completed her mission, Walter Hicks’ public profile had been completely transformed. No longer was the man a dead bum. No. Now Walter Hicks was a living and breathing psychiatrist who managed a private practice in the same town Jessica Mayes lived in. Walter Hicks was currently working with Jessica Mayes through a serious bout of depression, and deep, personal anger issues. “A distraught wife kills her psychiatrist, who is secretly in love with his patient...perfect.”

  With her goal accomplished, Wendy secured the changes with Agent Rainey's stamp and closed the file. Later, after Heath arrived with the dead John Doe, she would take a photo of the man, photo shop his face, log back into Walter Hicks’ file, and attach a picture to the name. The changes Wendy made were major, but not enough to send out any red flags. Wendy understood how to manipulate the system. As long as the first, middle and last name were not altered, along with the age, height, weight, eye color and blood type, the system didn't activate a 'Red Response' and issue any red flags. Simple, but very foolish, Wendy believed. However, sometimes simplicity assisted in achieving great goals.

  As darkness began to fall, Jessica and Mandy settled down into a warm living room, after a long day of speaking with a realtor and carefully writing up a resignation notice. Well, Mandy had talked with a realtor and worked on a resignation notice, while Jessica simply sat on her couch, with a vacant stare, for hours. “Hungry?”

  Jessica shook her head. “The coffee is fine, thank you,” she told Mandy.

  Mandy sighed. Poor Jessica looked horrible. The dark blue dress her sister had decided to wear for the day seemed to hang on her body like funeral cloth. “Honey, you haven't eaten all day.”

  “I feel so terrible,” Jessica told Mandy. “And guilty. You actually put your house on the market.”

  “I sure did,” Mandy nodded her head. “I'm going to get a very nice asking price, too.” Mandy wheeled over to Jessica. “I also completed my resignation notice,” she explained. “I'm going to have to work out my two weeks in order to get a good job reference,” she continued in a careful voice. “I didn't think of that last night. I guess I was more upset than I realized. Anyway, I hope you don't mind hanging around while I work out my two weeks?”

  Jessica shook her head. “I don't mind,” she promised, staring into a loving face, that had dismantled her current life in order to build a new life around a broken woman. “I'm sorry I haven't spoken very much today. I've been thinking about Jack.”

  “That's to be expected.”?

  Wendy heard Jack's name slip through a small speaker sitting on the metal counter, and quickly threw on a pair of headphones to hear better. “Mandy, Jack would want me to live,” Jessica continued. “I don't know why he was killed, and maybe that's the way it needs to be.” Jessica's face formed a painful expression. “Everything inside of my heart wants...needs...to avenge Jack's death...but...”

  “There's no way to fight the system, right, Jessie?” Mandy asked.

  “Who would I attack?” Jessica asked. “Who in the system is responsible? Ev
eryone? Certain people? I don't know.” Jessica squeezed her delicate hands into two tight fists. “There will never be a way to know who killed Jack, which leaves me...helpless. The only option I'm left with is to go back home and... exist.”

  “No, honey,” Mandy pleaded. She forced Jessica to release her fists with a caring hand. “You will start to live again. Not now, or tomorrow, or even a year from now, but someday, Jessie, you'll start to heal.”

  Jessica looked into Mandy's loving eyes. “In what type of world?” she dared to ask. “A world where murderers can get away with killing innocent men? Where snakes walking around in suits control how we think, what we eat, what we drink, watch, hear, see?” Jessica shook her head. “Mandy, we live in a demonically possessed society, and people are merely willing puppets. Live? No. All a person can do is exist.”

  “We live in Jesus, not this world,” Mandy reminded Jessica, patting her sister's hand, and wheeled away toward the kitchen. “I'm hungry. I'm going to go start dinner.” she said, leaving Jessica alone in the living room, alone with the words We live in Jesus, not this world.

  ((((((((((*))))))))))

  As Wendy turned Walter Hicks into an educated psychiatrist, Heath stationed himself under a bridge situated next to a Providence Ministries building. The rain had begun to fall again, and a few homeless men were standing under the bridge; four to be exact. A twenty-seventy year-old named Mike, a twenty-eight year old who called himself 'Pecan', a thirty year old named George, and a forty-seven year old man who didn't give his name. Pecan called the man 'Railroad'. Pecan seemed to be a mental case. All four men were dressed in dirty clothes, looked absolutely filthy, and smelled of vile cigarette smoke, alcohol and indifference; lifeless men waiting to simply die, filling their minds and bellies with deadly poison that temporarily allowed them to escape reality, and feel something other than shame. Heath focused his attention on the man Pecan called 'Railroad'. “The center I'm from is for men ranging from forty to seventy,” he explained, in a voice that appeared warm and caring, but was, indeed, deadly. “We focus on drug and alcohol rehabilitation.”

  Andy Longwell stared at Heath with drunk eyes, as he swayed back and forth in a pair of filthy boots, holding a vodka bottle in his right hand. The man's dirty red hair and messy beard dripped with disease. Andy Longwell had died many years back. The walking corpse people called 'Railroad' was now nothing more than an open grave. “Drink?” he asked Heath, and shot the vodka bottle up into the air. “I don't mind sharing.”

  “Sharing?” Pecan laughed and nudged George and Mike. “Who wants to drink after you, Railroad? A rat wouldn't even drink after you.” Heath shot Pecan a poisonous glare. Pecan, whose real name was Charlie Tibbs, resembled a sewer rat himself, only a sewer rat smelled better and had more teeth. Pecan ignored Heath's fierce eye. He was used to people treating him like trash. Pecan hated the world, and the world hated Pecan. “They won't even let you use the bathroom over there,” Pecan continued, and tossed a thumb toward the Providence Ministry building. “Ain't that right?”

  George saw Andy frown, lower the vodka bottle, and look down at his filthy boots. “Hey, the people in there ain't so bad,” he said in a shaky voice. The rain was freezing, and George was only dressed in a flimsy, thin, blue sweater. The man's thin face and scraggly beard made him look as if he were two seconds from wasting away.

  “Nice?” Pecan laughed, pulling a half-smoked cigarette out of the camouflage jacket he was wearing, and nodded at Andy. “Bunch of pricks in there pretending to be better than everyone else.”

  Heath frowned. Pecan was becoming a real nuisance. “Please,” he spoke to Andy, “my duty is to visit different locations and try to help men like yourself.” Heath glanced around. The heavily falling rain was keeping prying eyes indoors. “We offer free housing, free food, and a one hundred dollar a week allowance toward residents who show full commitment to their treatment plan.”

  “I'll take a hundred dollars,” Pecan laughed, and nudged Mike. “Mike wouldn't mind a hundred dollars either, ain't that right, Mike?” Pecan lit his smoke with a dirty match. “Mike and me go way back, mister. We both went to Dalton High, ain't that right, Mike?” he asked, as he took a deep draw from his smoke. “Let's see...I dropped out in the tenth grade and Mike here made it to his senior year.”

  “Junior year,” Mike corrected Pecan, and quickly folded his thin, hungry arms together, wishing he had a coat instead of a used rain jacket that offered no comfort. Mike wanted to get clean. He wanted to escape the drugs, the street, people like Pecan. Mike had tried different programs to get clean, but had always failed. The drugs were too strong for him to resist. “Junior year, Pecan.”

  Pecan stared at Mike. The emotions in his eyes changed from playful to cruel in a matter of seconds. “Who cares?” he yelled, and pushed Mike away from him. “And you!” he yelled at Heath, “take a hike! This is my turf!” Andy, although drunk, knew when to step away from Pecan. He nodded at George and eased toward Heath. “All of you, get lost!”

  Heath felt his temper flare up. He lowered his head, took a step toward Pecan, and opened the gray coat he was wearing just enough to reveal a Glock 19 resting in a shoulder holster. “Take a walk,” he hissed, with eyes that nearly made Pecan lose control of his bowels. “Now.”

  Pecan saw the Glock 19, felt his body turn cold, and held up his hands. “Hey man, take it easy. It's all good. We're all friends.”

  Heath heard a train approaching. “Be on the other side of the tracks before that train arrives,” he warned Pecan. Pecan swallowed, and then began backing out into the rain, toward the parking lot attached to Providence Ministry building. When he was far enough away from Heath, he made a sour face and then took off running. Heath let out an ugly breath, turned and faced Andy. “Now, where were we?” he asked, forcing his voice to sound pleasant. “Oh yes, the center.”

  “I'm gonna go,” Mike told Andy in a shaky voice. “Me and George need to...meet a man, okay, Railroad?”

  “Yeah,” George added, and patted Andy on his shoulder. “We're sleeping down by the carpet mill on Cleveland. You know the one,” he said, and quickly walked off into the rain with Mike, leaving Andy alone with Heath.

  Andy watched his buddies vanish into the pouring rain, and then looked down at the vodka bottle in his hand. “Drink, mister?” he asked.

  “No,” Heath replied. It was obvious his target was too intoxicated to hold a conversation. Heath knew he had to alter course. “Look,” he said and whipped a twenty dollar bill out of his coat pocket, “why don't we take a ride to the nearest liquor store and get you a new bottle, huh? My treat.”

  Andy stared at Heath with confused eyes, as he swayed back and forth like a tower preparing to collapse. “You said...you said you wanted to help guys like me.” he said in a slurred voice.

  “I do,” Heath confirmed. “The center I work for is quite radical. We believe in slow separation, rather than immediate withdrawal.” Heath pointed to a 2015 KIA Sorento parked a few yards away, next to a white van. “Look, my friend, it's cold and wet,” he continued. “Please, what have you got to lose?” Heath reached out and put the twenty dollar bill in Andy's dirty hand. Andy stared at the bill as if it were gold. “Where is the nearest liquor store?”

  “I... down on Walnut Avenue,” Andy said, desperately trying to speak clearly. In his younger years, Andy had been a star football player at Southeast High School; the best quarter back the school had ever seen, in his opinion. After graduating from Southeast, Andy had joined the Army and became a mechanic. That's when his life took a tragic turn. A friend he had met off base talked Andy into doing some cocaine one night at a party, while Andy was extremely intoxicated. A pretty girl who was a bad cocaine addict also talked Andy into using the cocaine. Two weeks after the party, Andy popped positive on a drug test and was kicked out of the Army. His life went downhill from that moment, and never recovered. Was Andy Longwell a bad guy? No. The man simply made a stupid mistake at a part
y one night, at the tender age twenty-three. A mistake that destroyed his life.

  “Let's take a ride.” Heath grinned, walking Andy over to the KIA Sorento, and parked the man in the passenger seat. Andy assumed he had been allowed to sit in a nice vehicle. The man didn't know he had been placed in a hearse. One hour later, he was laying in the hatchback of the KIA with a bullet in his heart. “I have the body,” Heath told Wendy, speaking into a cell phone. “I'm in route.”

  Wendy grinned. “Leave the body at the back door,” she ordered. “Leave Dalton immediately. When you confirm to me that you are at the Atlanta airport, I will release the second part of your payment.”

  “Done,” Heath said. He ended the call and delivered Andy's body to a run down, abandoned house sitting on the far southeast part of the county, and then drove away, never to be seen again.

  Wendy, wearing a pair of advanced night vision goggles, that allowed her to see every movement Heath made, as if the man were walking in clear daylight, stepped out from behind a tree holding a black umbrella, walked up to the back porch of the run down house, and looked down at the black body bag that Heath had stuffed Andy's body in. “Now, Mrs. Hayes, it's time for me to lock you away,” she said with hungry eyes. She whipped out her cell phone and made a call: “Yes, Senator Ammons, this is Wendy Cratterson. I am calling to request a favor.”

  Senator Ammons, who was sitting in a fancy office in Sacramento, stiffened. Wendy Cratterson was a dangerous woman. “Yes?” she asked, speaking in a voice that sounded every bit of sixty-eight. “What do you need Ms. Cratterson? As I remember, if I'm not mistaken, our relationship was supposed to have come to an end.”

  “You owe me a favor,” Wendy pointed out, listening to the cold, hard rain strike the umbrella. “If I recall, you owe me many favors,” she continued. “I have certain documents that can be very harmful to your career, if you refuse to honor the favors owed to me.”