Thomas, the cat, yowled at him as he started up the stairs to the porch.
“Shut up, cat. Sally gives you food, not me. All I need is a beer,” he said opening the screen door and going inside.
*****
“What exactly do your ghost balls look like?” The reporter asked, trying without much success to hide her smile.
“They is usually about maybe the size of big beach balls, but they ain't from no beach I've ever heard tell of. They're silvery and makes a spooky kinda sound. First time I saw one I thought the Lord was coming to take me up to heaven, but I never saw Jesus just them ghost balls.”
“How many times have you seen them and what time do they usually appear? Midnight?”
“Seen ‘em maybe a dozen times altogether. And I never seen ‘em at midnight, I'm usually abed by then. See ‘em mostly at nightfall or real early in the morning.”
“And you say they appear in these very woods?” The reporter asked while gesturing to the kudzu lined ditch and thick forest of pine trees beyond.
“Yes ma'am. Saw one just this morning, up there,” Allison said, pointing up over the trees.
“Why do you think they appear to you?”
“No fuc-... No idea. But I've had my fill of ‘em. Called the cops to come out here, but they all think I'm crazier than a shit house rat. They never check the woods, just come out and tell me not to worry about it.”
The reporter glanced up at the setting sun before asking, “Do you think a ghost ball will appear tonight? And if so, how much longer before it shows up?”
“Lady, I don't know if one's coming or not, but I'd say it's still a bit too early for it. Like I said, they mostly come when it's dark.”
Turning back to the cameraman, the reporter smiled and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor, for your time. And don't worry, folks, we'll stick around and see if we can catch a glimpse of these ghost balls. For WBIR news, this is Candace Rogers reporting live from the haunted woods just outside of Ragland Alabama.”
Allison bummed a cigarette from the cameraman as Candace went over to the field producer standing by the news van. “This is the biggest waste of time ever. Chasing ghost balls because some nut cake says they're out here. Can we go home now?” She asked hopefully.
“Just got off the phone with the boss. He says people love the old lady. And what with Halloween only being a week away we've got something fun here. They're gonna be on standby to go live during the six o'clock news, probably at the end of the show. After that, we can call it a night.”
“Frigging waste of time. But okay, we'll go ghost hunting then I am going home. I don't care if a ghost walks over and says boo, this is the kind of fluff piece I swore I'd never do.”
“I dunno, I kind of think you look sexy out here in the woods.”
She smiled, and shook her head climbing into the van. “You better watch those sexual harassment videos back at the station again, before you get yourself in trouble.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Stormy weather
“So, you have no recollection whatsoever regarding what happened to you this morning?” The police inspector asked again for, what at least to Jake felt like, the hundredth time.
His dad was standing outside his son's room, scowling through the observation window as his son was interviewed by a man he'd never seen before and never wanted to see again. Jim watched as another police officer tried to distract and calm him down. Even through the glass, he could hear his son answering the questions but his answers didn't seem to be what the investigator wanted to hear.
“I already told you, I was running with my dog to the football field and then things get all funky in my head. It’s just a bunch of weird pieces of; I don't know... sorta like flashes of pictures. The only thing I can really remember clearly was seeing an angel. The rest is just a blur.”
“Did you notice a van parked in the lot? Kind of beat up and old?”
Jake closed his eyes and could see it. “Was it sort of gray?”
“Yes. Do you know who hit you in the head and stabbed you?”
“My dad said it was Orlando. He's this bad kid in town. But like I said before, I don't remember being attacked. It’s all sorta mixed up like when you wake up from a dream and you try to remember it. It doesn't make any sense. I'm sorry, but I just can't remember.”
“Do you recall hearing anything Orlando or the other kid said about where they might be going after they left the school?”
“No. The only words I can remember was his voice, Orlando's, when he said something like 'Move it Romeo or you and Juliet won't get to play doctor.'”
“Was there a girl there? Is that why you went there so early? To meet her or something?”
Jake sighed in exasperation and looked the policeman in the eye. “I told you before, I made a deal with Andy the school janitor to help clean up the field from last night's game. He was going to pay me to help clean up but wasn't around when I got there.”
“So, to the best of your recollection, there was no girl? You're sure?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, son, I believe you. You just take it easy and get to feeling better. I'm going to leave my card with you and your dad. If you remember anything else will you give me a call? It's really important,” the inspector said, rising from the chair and setting a business card on the nightstand table.
“I'll call if I remember anything. I promise,” Jake said and yawned, before turning away and closing his eyes.
“You've got your nerve,” Jim Carver growled, after the investigator left his son's room. “That boy has been through Hell today and as if that's not enough, you grill him for almost thirty minutes. You've already caught the son of a bitch who tried to kill him. What the Hell is your problem anyway?”
The investigator looked at the deputy in disgust. “You didn't tell him?”
The deputy looked uncomfortable before responding, “I didn't know if I should or if you wanted to tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
“Orlando Duprat escaped custody earlier this afternoon,” the investigator said quietly.
“What?!” Jim yelled and moved closer.
“Calm down. He shot and killed one deputy and seriously injured Sheriff Harrison when he escaped. State Troopers and all local police have been put on alert. The details are on the radio and the TV news shows too. Harrison himself asked me to speak with your son to find out if he might know where Duprat may have gone.”
“How, no scratch that. I don't care how he escaped, but tell me did Jake say anything helpful?”
“He may know something, but he's been knocked around quite a bit. A concussion can play havoc with memory, but it’s possible he still may recall something helpful. I left him a card and I'd like you to take one too in case he does,” he said, handing Jim a small card.
“But wait, you're not leaving are you?”
“Mr. Carver, the odds of Duprat showing up here are nil. However, I did speak with the hospital's chief of security and warned him to be on his toes, just in case. Jake will be fine. Try not to worry and give me a call if he remembers anything.”
Watching the officers walking toward the elevators, Jim grunted in disgust crumbled and threw the card on the tiled floor. He went quietly back to his son. Jim listened to the soft rhythmic snores as he walked into the intensive care unit and crossed over to the window.
Trying to take his mind off his many worries, he pulled open the curtains. Dark storm clouds were quickly rolling in from the west as he saw lights twinkling across the city to Red Mountain a few miles away.
Spotting the familiar iron statue of Vulcan, the Roman blacksmith god of fire standing atop his tower. And not for the first time, he idly wondered why it had ever been built.
Some crazy fucker almost kills my only son, escapes the police and they come to us for help. They should have shot the bastard when they had the chance. God only knows what that sack of shit's up to. The cops are probably right, though. Duprat's not dumb e
nough to come here. But, then why do I feel so..., he thought, trying to determine exactly what he felt. It was almost like someone was watching him or maybe stalking.
Still uncertain what was bothering him, a slight movement above him caught his attention. A small roach was scurrying across the ceiling tiles. He took off his boot and moved closer to his son. If it weren't for the jumble of wires, tubes, examination lights, and curtain surrounding the bed he might have thrown his boot at the bug. He watched it move across the ceiling before it slipped between two ceiling tiles and disappeared.
*****
After checking the house Thomas sighed in contentment. Sally wasn't home. His stomach hurt a little and he figured it was just hunger pains. He pulled a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and grabbed a bag of pork rinds off the counter before heading to the living room. Settling into his recliner, he switched on the TV and flipped channels until he found the WBIR six o'clock news show starting. Thomas didn't care for the news a bit, but they had a cute young reporter that he'd often fantasized about.
Munching on pork rinds and sipping his beer, he felt extremely relaxed for almost thirty seconds before his stomach rolled uneasily. He felt the urge to fart, but wasn't at all certain if it would be gas or something far worse. He set the bag and beer on the table and decided not to risk crapping his favorite recliner again.
Sally made him throw out the old one after his last accident, even though he'd cleaned it and used two spray cans of disinfectant on it. He got partially up before a series of cramps made the idea of standing erect seem impossible. Feeling like Groucho Marx, he walked bent over while clenching his butt tightly shut. The pressure was building and it felt like something horrible was about to erupt.
He got to the bathroom and just managed to make it to the toilet before all Hell broke loose. It felt like everything not nailed down was being blown out of his body by a fire hose. “Damn! Whoa, yow, don't that burn though!” He yelped, as the curse of Sonny James free hotdogs claimed yet another victim.
After several minutes, he got cleaned up and made his way unsteadily back into the living room.
The cute reporter was talking about a string of food poisoning cases in Ragland. Health Department officials traced the source back to a car dealership that gave free hotdogs away as part of a promotion. Over two hundred people had fallen ill with bouts of stomach cramps and digestive discomfort, so far. A graphic filled the screen with suggestions to alleviate the symptoms with a caution at the bottom stating if pain and discomfort persisted viewers should see their family physician as soon as possible.
A visibly upset Sonny James appeared on the screen trying to explain away the food poisoning as being possibly caused by any number of sources.
Thomas muted the sound and looked away from the screen. His stomach burbled uncomfortably as the thought that James had been responsible for making him sick infuriated the old man.
He glanced back at the TV and saw Sheriff Harrison dressed in a tuxedo with a bandage on his forehead. He turned the sound back on.
“We have received assistance from various police departments, as well as State Troopers in the search for Mr. Duprat. If you should see him-” A mug shot of Orlando filled the screen as Harrison continued to speak, “-under no circumstances should you approach him. He is considered heavily armed and extremely dangerous. Just call 911 and tell us where you saw him and let us handle the situation.”
Off camera, a reporter asked, “Sheriff, is it true he's killed several people and was responsible for your injuries as well?”
“I have no comment, other than what I just said. Now, if you'll excuse me I have work to do,” Harrison said, blushing slightly as he turned and hurried away
Thomas took a small sip of beer and looked at the open front door. He stood and quickly walked over, shut it and turned the deadbolt lock. Turning, he moved swiftly to the back door and locked it too. He then went to the fireplace and pulled down his old shotgun from over the mantle and confirmed it was loaded.
A reporter was talking about ghost balls and Thomas switched off the TV. The silence of the empty house unnerved him as he hurried to the phone and started calling his neighbors asking if any of them had seen his wife.
*****
With quickly approaching dark clouds and the sound of distant thunder, Candace Rogers called the station to see if they could scrap the ghost ball segment and head back to town. After arguing for a few minutes, she hung up her phone sighed and walked over to an obviously agitated Allison Taylor.
“I need to head for home soon. Them’s some nasty looking thunder boomers over yonder. Mr. Jackson hates the rain. Gets his fur all nasty and matted, plus he starts to stink when he gets wet,” Allison said, cradling her fat cat in her arms.
“Mrs. Taylor, I just spoke to the executive producer. We're going live in just a few more minutes.”
“Don't care. It's about to rain buckets. I can smell it. I'm going home. Come on, Michael,” she said, walking back to her grocery cart.
“Wait! Look, I can give you another twenty dollars if you stay. Please,” Candace begged.
“Make it fifty, otherwise I'm heading for home, Allison said, with a smile that showed a couple of gaps where she was missing a few teeth.
“Okay, yes fifty,” Candace said grimacing.
“One minute to air,” the camera operator said, listening to his headset that was receiving audio from the news studio.
“Payable up front, please,” Allison said grinning hugely.
“All I have is a hundred,” Candace said, searching her pockets.
“That'll work.”
“No way!”
“Thirty seconds to air. The producer says he'll reimburse you, Candace, just give her the money!” The camera operator shouted as the winds began to pick up. “Fifteen seconds!”
Candace handed the old lady the hundred dollar bill as the flood lights along the side of the truck's roof lit up the darkness and the trees behind them.
Allison made the money disappear in one of her pockets and smiled at the camera while cradling her increasingly agitated cat.
With the distant crashing of thunder and steadily increasing winds, WBIR's television audience was about to see something everyone later agreed had to have been staged. It had to be an elaborate hoax that many viewers considered to be in the vein of Orson Wells, with his famous War of the Worlds broadcast.
*****
“Thanks again for the coffee, Mr. Owens,” Agent Mendez said, sitting at the kitchen table.
His wife had been very quiet since she'd come home with her husband and son. Polite but very quiet. She looked suspiciously at the beautiful tall exotic looking Hispanic woman and just knew whatever she might say, she was really only interested in her husband.
“Maggie makes great brew, and that's a fact,” Craig said, smiling at his wife. He could sense her feelings toward the agent and wanted to avoid bloodshed if at all possible.
“Oh yes, thank you ma'am. It's been a long weird day. I like your kitchen too. It has a nice, um- homey feel to it,” Mendez said, smiling at the older woman.
“I suppose you'll be wanting dinner too?” Maggie asked, in an icy tone of voice, while standing across the kitchen in front of the stove with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Oh, yes, please say you'll stay. My mom's a great cook and besides I can hear a storm coming,” Tommy said, trotting into the kitchen with Frodo following him.
Kid, you just stepped on a landmine, Mendez thought, before speaking. “I'd love to. I really would, but I have to get to town and file some reports including yours. Speaking of which, the sooner we get started the sooner I can get out of your hair,” she said, then sipped at the coffee.
“Well, if you can't stay, that's alright then,” Maggie said, turning to check the roast she had cooking in the oven.
After Maggie went into the living room, Shannon pulled out her digital recorder and hit record. Holding a pen over her notebook, she looked at the fat
her and son on the other side of the table expectantly. When no one spoke up she tried to put them at ease. “Don't worry guys; I'm a federal agent not a monster. Just tell me about the bird you shot.”
The man cleared his throat and stared at the recorder before managing to say, “My name is Craig Owens. I live here in Ragland, with my son Tom and wife Maggie. Oh wait, her name's actually Margaret and his is Thomas. I'm sorry. Should we start over?”
“No, that's alright. You're doing fine. Please go on.”
“Well, me and the boy was out spraying and checking over the pumpkins out by the pond over by the woods. You have to use spray or the bugs will ruin them even this late in the season.”
Mendez nodded and scribbled in her notepad.
“Tom saw the bird first. I thought he was just being lazy or goofing off. You know how boys are.”
The boy grunted and kicked a leg of the kitchen table in frustration.
Mendez suppressed a smile as Craig continued. “I asked him what he was doing, and he says looking at a weird crow. So I look where he is and see the bird too. It was sitting on a branch of one of the pine trees that stretches over the pond. I didn't see anything odd about it and said as much.”
“Dad, don't lie to the FBI. You said it was just a fucking bird,” the boy interrupted.
“Language!” Maggie shouted, from the living room.
“Sorry, but that's what he said,” Tommy said, with a mischievous smile.
“Tell me, what made you think it was weird? What got your attention in the first place?” Mendez asked.
“At school, in biology, we studied birds and how they act. You know reproduction, hunting, migration, and stuff like that. But a bunch of things seemed odd to me. Crows don't eat pumpkins for one thing. And they're not supposed to be able to swivel their heads all the way around either. You know like an owl does, but I saw it do that. Plus it was making weird noises. I've seen lots of crows before, but this one just seemed really mega wrong.”
“Did you hear the sounds, too?” Mendez asked the man.
“Nope, course my hearing sorta sucks without my hearing aids. Don't usually wear ‘em when I'm working out in the fields.”