Book Three: Part 6 - Facing Evil - Chapter 28
Monday – January 16th
Montie High School – 8:59 a.m.
“Hey, coach. Coach Miller!”
A tall, heavyset man, nearing forty, with a thinning scalp, turned his head in the direction of the voice.
“Oh, yes, Stevie Baker. How are you, and what can I help you with?”
“Ah, Coach Miller, Bradly Jensen came up to me Friday. He said you had expressed an interest in having me on the team, either as a first or third base line coach.”
“Yes, forgive me, I almost forgot. I have so much going on in my head right at the moment; but yes, I am interested. After how you worked so well with Coach Claymoore and the Pythoner’s, I feel we can work you into either position, learning play signals to batters, and when and when not to advance runners from base to base, or home plate for that matter.
“Would you be interested?”
“Sure, but it would depend when the season ends. Coach Claymoore wants me back.”
“No doubt as his assistant, and playing.”
“I’d only play if I’m needed in clutch situations.”
“Spring training begins the last week in March, and our first game is April 20th, against Stanhouse.
“Tell you what, I have a meeting with Principal Marlow in a few minutes. If you’re still interested, stop by my office before you leave school today.”
Stevie agreed as his last class was at 2:30. Watching Coach Miller walk down the corridor, he couldn’t help but feel good about himself. His mind was made up. The rest would be up to the coach.
Bethany’s – 11:23 a.m.
The Doll-Maker Shop
He drove right to her home as if he has made a habit of dropping in like an old friend. Parking in front of the Townhouse in the circle as before, he strode confidently along the cobblestone walkway to the office door.
Freddy felt excitement, almost to the point he felt if he concentrated all his will at this moment, he could have an orgasm against his silken shorts. But he didn’t.
In two more days, Phase Two would be in operation.
Placing his gloved hand on the office doorknob, he twisted it and stepped inside and heard the bells playing again. This time it was a different song where he sang the words in his head. Your so vain, you probably think this song is about you, about you.
As he turned back around from closing the door, he faced the counter, and there stood, Bethany.
“Good morning, Mr. Murray.” She then pointed to three boxes to her right, stacked on top of each other. “Your order is fulfilled. Please, come closer and take a look at my work.”
At first, Freddy couldn’t make his legs work. That lasted all of ten seconds. Then he was right there, lifting the lid on the top box.
“This is … incredible. Your detail is excellent, flawless. I am highly impressed.”
“Hold your praise, Mr. Murray, until you have looked at the other two.”
Freddy nodded, and placed the first doll back in the box, with Stevie’s exact features (without a leg), and put it to one side.
The next one he opened, was Manning. Bethany scored another ten.
He paused for a moment knowing who was in the next box. When he took off the lid, there she lay, immobile, staring, almost as if the eyes were real (Bethany guaranteed life-like creations, remember), and the eyes seemed to lock onto his own. Eyes that almost seemed to move about, as if trying to get under the mask he wore, and see the real him.
He had to turn away, closing the lid on the box at the same time and looked at Bethany.
“I stand by what I said before; you do absolutely incredible work. You even have the clothing from the photographs exactly right. Nice touch with the crutches.
“You truly capture the essence of life in your doll portraits, Bethany. Thank you ever so much.”
“You are certainly welcome. If you ever require my services again, I’m sorry, but I only do this for a customer one time. It is a standard policy I have had a very long time.”
Freddy nodded that he understood, then picked up the three boxes, thanking her one last time as he left her shop, and laid the boxes on the floorboard of the backseat, and headed for home. The dolls would require additional work that only he could do.
Bethany watched his departure until out of sight, and mused to no one except the air circling her, and with a thin-lipped smile of his words about her capturing the essence of life.
As she made her way from her shop to inside her home, she cackled loudly, “You really have no idea about the true meaning of the essence of life, Fredrick Uri Kristen. None whatsoever.
“Be grateful. Your life would do me no good.”
Shelby’s Gas & Go – 12:21 p.m.
Corner of 9th & West End
For being downtown, and just on the fringe of The Project’s, Shelby’s did a substantial business, but Shelby’s has also been robbed six times in the last twenty months. Today, make that seven times.
Well, almost seven.
A dark brown, 1979 Pontiac, was parked illegally in front of the store, engine running, a young black teen behind the wheel. Inside were his two friends; one holding the cashier at gunpoint, while the other one grabbed the register to throw inside the car to make their escape as quickly as possible.
That was fatal mistake number one.
Whipping the register toward him, he didn’t account for its weight or its cumbersome size. He couldn’t get a firm grip and before he realized it, he was thrown off balance, right into the one holding the gun.
Both boys went crashing to the floor as the register landed on the one the teen’s arm that was holding the gun. Not only did the gun fly out of his hand, but the register broke his foreman. But that wasn’t all. Fatal mistake number two.
When the gun hit the floor, it accidently discharged a round and the result was a stray bullet in the right buttock of the one teen who grabbed the register to begin with. Fatal mistake number three.
Henry Clausen and Terrance Klugston were patrolling that sector of town, and spotted the Pontiac illegally parked in the lot. Fatal mistake number four.
As they pulled in, the driver, instead of trying to drive away, bolted from the car, and started running. Clausen, who was driving, just veered his car in the same direction the boy was headed, cutting off his escape. Klugston hopped out, drew his weapon, and told the boy to drop to the ground.
The boy (barely twelve by the way) stood stock still on the ground as Klugston put handcuffs on him, and then put him in the back seat of the squad car, and radioed for backup.
As Klugston was dealing with the boy, Clausen, edged closer to Shelby’s front doors. Everyone knew this place was notorious for being robbed; why they never moved to a different location was way beyond him.
Taking a quick look inside, without giving much of himself as a target; if whoever was inside were too fire on him; but what he saw surprised him. Rolling on the floor he saw a young black male, holding his ass, leaving a trail of blood wherever he rolled. His partner tried helping him get to his feet, but even that was semi-comical.
Clausen rushed inside, gun aimed at the two suspects, and told them to lie face down on the floor. He quickly took in the scene, and mentally he asked himself why the register was on the floor.
Two other units showed up.
“Hey, man! I been shot in my ass, man! I need a doctor, man! I’m like bleeding all over the place, man!”
One of the backup units called for an ambulance.
As it stood, the one had a cast put on his forearm, the other, who proclaimed he was damn near dead, had thirty-eight stitches.
He would be a long way away from being dead, but he and his friends were sitting in jail, charged with six counts of armed robbery, and one attempted count of assault with intent to commit bodily harm.
The youngest of the three was placed under the custody of the Youth Services Division. The other two were over eighteen and were facing ten to twenty years on each count.
Captain Satchell Page’s Office – 2:29 p.m.
“We finally have some good news for a change. I just got off the phone with Carl at the medical examiner’s office. The new equipment for the lab finally arrived. Carl said with any luck, starting tomorrow, or Wednesday, he can begin doing testing on any and all DNA evidence collected without sending samples up north any longer. We have finally caught up to the twenty-first century.”
“It’s about damn time, Satch,” commented Ed.
“I second that emotion,” said Baker. “And I know all the words to that song, too. Want to hear me sing?” She grinned.
“No!” Both men said it at the same time, and then all three laughed.
“Anyway, Carl wanted to know if we would like to meet him at Benny’s Pub after work tonight. He calls it a celebration of sorts.”
Baker and Ed looked at each other and made two small nods.
“I’m sure we can leave Stevie long enough for at least one drink. Tell Carl we’ll be there.”
Looking at the time, Baker said, “If you two will excuse me, speaking of Stevie, I’m going to pick him up from school.”
140 Ochie Woods Lane – 5:19 p.m.
Freddy finally finished his final touch-ups to the three dolls. Three dolls he almost felt like pulverizing with his bare hands right now, but he held his rising anger in check. He could already envision the look of utter shock, appall, fear, and revulsion when sweet Janis looked inside these boxes. He wished he could be on hand to record the moment.
One thing Freddy did notice; there wasn’t any mention on any of the boxes the dolls were placed in, or any type of seal or marking that would denote Bethany’s name or The Doll-Maker. Just as well. It wouldn’t do to have the dolls somehow traced back to Bethany and find out about him that way. It would mean changing identities as well as scrapping his plans, and if that happened, that would blow the lid off his anger.
Another thing he noted about Bethany; she wasn’t listed in the Yellow Pages, and he couldn’t find an ad from her in the Montie or Stanhouse newspapers; but most puzzling, he couldn’t locate her online, anywhere.
All Freddy knew is that the dolls wouldn’t tie back to her, where she would have to tell them he bought them. Big deal. No one knew where he is. The real Freddy, that is. Within a week, Craig Murray would disappear. Poof!
The Baker-Manning Home
111 Homestead Lane – 8:26 p.m.
As Baker and Ed walked into their home after leaving Benny’s Pub, the first thing they saw was a plate of finger-sandwiches on the kitchen counter, and Stevie, apparently finishing up a call with Ellie.
“Yeah, me too, Ellie. See you in school tomorrow.”
“Me too, what, bub?”
“Hi, mom. Oh, that’s how I say, I love you to her.”
“Really? And I suppose when she says to you, I love you, it comes out; I’m jiggy with it.”
Stevie howled with laughter.
“No, mom. She says, I do for you.”
“Huh?” broke in Ed. Am I missing something here? Whatever happened to just saying, I love you? That can’t be so hard, can it?”
“No, but we like our little code. It’s no worse when you guys say, ditto, almost all the time.”
“I get it now. Well, I don’t, but okay.” Ed looked at Baker. “Do we really say ditto, a lot?”
He shook his head, and walked to the kitchen and grabbed a few of the sandwiches.
“Hey, bub, Ed tells me you told him some good news about school. Do you think you’re up to coaching for the team, and hold down your studies? Then come fall, basketball and studies? Seems like a load. I’m not against it; just worried you might have a meltdown one of these days.” Then she spoke a little louder for Ed’s benefit. “You are the one that says ditto, not me.”
“It’s all good, mom. Trust me, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think I could handle it, otherwise I would have turned it down. Outside of family, and Ellie, my studies are important to me. Pretty soon, I’ll be looking at some colleges. And, when the time comes, when they look at my GPA, I want to be a good prospect to get a seat i9n a good university.”
“When the time comes,” said Ed as he came over with a plate of finger-sandwiches and handed them to Baker.
“These are really good, Stevie. Maybe you should consider a culinary arts school.”
“I’ve thought about that too, Ed.” Thanking Ed for bringing her the sandwiches, she turned back to Stevie.
“As I was about to say, when the time comes, every single college you apply to will want you. Have you given any thought where you would want to go?”
“Not really. I mean there are some in the south like Duke and North Carolina State. Then there is South Carolina, and Georgia Tech. A few out west like UCLA, and Washington. Then there’s Penn and Ohio State. Sometimes, I get to thinking about Harvard and Yale, maybe even Notre Dame.
“But I think it’s still a little early to get too serious. That’ll happen after this year when I become a senior. Either way, my grades are important.
“With all I have learned from you at home, and from what I get out of my classes, when the time comes; hopefully, that will be enough for them to see the kind of person I am, and who and what I want to become.”
“And what, or who do you want to be, bub?”
“I’m thinking maybe a d-tec-a-tive, like you and Ed, or maybe a judge, or, maybe one day, the governor.”
And so new revelations were expressed and new concerns perhaps. But if nothing else, his words did tell Baker, her son is growing up.