Hints

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-eight

            Nelson’s next stop took him to a small town 30 miles from Little Rock. It was set in an area of lowlands dominated by Pine Forests. He passed a large cattle farm dotted with specks of black in the distance: a herd of Angus cattle raised, in all likelihood, as a hobby, a tax write-off, or both, according to what Morgan Fowler had once shared with Nelson. The ranch was soon replaced by dense forests, with periodic gaps occupied by small homes or trailers. Nelson followed the highway into town and, after glancing at his notes, followed a winding route to the address he was seeking. An older and large white frame house, well-maintained and recently painted, graced the over-sized lot. A profusion of landscaping suggested both pride and modest affluence. He parked on the street and walked to the door.

            He rang the doorbell and the door opened to reveal a young girl of 18 years or so of age. She wore no makeup and her hair was black, falling straight on each side of a face dominated by large dark eyes. Straight-cut bangs completed the severe appearance, which was balanced by a black pullover and baggy pants, also black. She visually appraised Nelson for a few seconds and said, “You the man?”

            Nelson seemed surprised. “Sorry?”

            “Are you the jackboot we’re waiting for?”

            “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Deputy with the Armistead County Sheriff’s Department.  I’m here to see Mrs. Davenport.” He extended his ID.

            “Bullshit. You’re here to see Miss Davenport and I am she.” She waved his ID away with a dismissive gesture. “You want to come in or you want to talk out here?”

            “Is your mother in?”

            “Why? Are you afraid of being alone with me?”

            “Quite frankly, yes.”

            The girl laughed at this and extended her hand. “You’ll do. I’m Tricia Davenport. Come on in.” She turned and yelled into the house. “Mom, the cop from Armistead County is here.” She ushered Nelson into the room as a woman in her forties entered wearing a straw hat, a red plaid shirt and overhauls. She was holding a gardening spade in one hand.

            “Oh goodness,” she said, “I let the time slip up on me. Do sit. Trish dear …,” she said, turning to her daughter, “make our guest at home while I get presentable.”

            “Aye, aye, Captain,” Trish said, offering a mock salute. She looked at Nelson and said, “I heard you were a Navy man so we’ll talk some Navy shit, what do you say?”

            Nelson blew his breath and laughed. “I hardly know what to say.”

            Then it was Tricia’s time to laugh. “Cut the crap, sailor,” she said, “or you might make me start liking men.” She ushered him into the living room and motioned for him to sit. “Now tell me,” she said, “how can our town’s resident bull-dyke help you?”

            Nelson was obviously flustered. “Is that how you usually describe yourself?”

            “When my parents aren’t listening,” she said. “Besides, aren’t you here to find out why I was in the nut house?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said. “May I assume you are talking about the Ransom Center?”

            “You may assume anything you wish,” Tricia said, “including the possibility that I’m bisexual and like older men.” She saw Nelson blush and appeared pleased with herself. “But yes,” she said, “I’m talking about the so-called Ransom Center, where they cure you of anything that you like about yourself, or at least try to.”

            “So you don’t approve of the place?”

            “It’s fairly harmless,” she said. “I came out okay. I’ll bet you can guess why they sent me there.” When Nelson didn’t answer, she continued. “Not really for what I am,” she said. “It was because I got tired of justifying it to my parents and had gotten hostile—sort of created a battleground in the midst of our little well-landscaped heaven.”

            “Did they help you find a cure?”

            “They helped us find a truce,” she said. “Now they are free to plan what college I’ll attend and I’m free to plan on eating pussy while I’m there.”

            “Trish!” a voice said from the next room, “please don’t descend into depravity the moment I leave.”

            Mrs. Davenport appeared carrying a tray with three drinking glasses filled with iced tea. “Our guest will think,” she said, “that we have no breeding whatsoever.” She winked at her daughter mischievously. “Besides,” she said. “You’ve promised us to remain a virgin until you’ve finished your education.”

            “Did not,” Tricia said. “I promised you that you wouldn’t hear of my having any wild sexual episodes while you were paying for my college.” She wagged a finger at her mother and laughed. “Truth above all. Remember our pact.”

            “Honestly,” Mrs. Davenport said, placing the tray on a table between Nelson and Tricia. She handed Nelson a glass as she said, “Do you have any children Mr. …” She blanched. “Oh my,” she said. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Ramona Davenport, and this is …”

            “Her same-sex daughter,” Tricia said. “Honesty Mom, honesty.”

            Nelson rose. “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Tricia and I are already acquainted.”

            “And he’s not nearly as dopey as I had feared,” Tricia said. “I think, though, that I’ve met his expectation as a nut case.”

            “Oh Trish,” her mother said. She turned to Nelson. “I was just going to ask you if you had children.”

            “No ma’am,” Nelson said. “I don’t.”

            “Then take my advice,” she said, patting Trish’s knee, “think it over long and hard before you do.” She and Trish looked at one another and smiled. “Honest, honey, honesty,” she said. They both laughed.

            The three of them relaxed for a moment and drank their tea. Nelson broke the silence. “Thank you for your time. When we spoke on the phone, I didn’t have much time to explain my mission.”

            “Oh boy,” Tricia said, “a mission. That sounds exciting.”

            “Which is to investigate the murder of a young girl named Abbey Stubblefield in Armistead County.”

            “The African-American girl who made the mistake of going to Connorville?” Tricia said, assuming a more serious tone. “Was she an inmate of the Ransom Center too?”

            “No,” Nelson said, “but a friend of hers went there and disappeared. She hasn’t been heard from since. Her name is Bridgette Thompson.”

            “Oh,” Tricia said. “I’ve heard about her. That was long after I left. Why are you asking about her? I wish I knew something, but I don’t.”

            “Abbey, the victim,” said Nelson, “was, as I say, good friends with Bridgette. I’m trying to find out if there is any connection between the murder and Bridgette’s disappearance.”

            “Like maybe they had a spat, Bridgette whacked her, and fled?”

            “Trish!” Mrs. Davenport said.

            “No,” Nelson said, “It’s more like Abbey was trying to find out why Bridgette disappeared when she was murdered.”

            “Oh my,” Tricia said.

            “How can we help you?” Mrs. Davenport said.

            Nelson turned to Tricia. “Do you recall if any patients of the clinic disappeared while you were at the center?”

            Tricia thought. “There was one,” she said excitedly, as if she’d discovered the answer to a math problem. “There was. A girl named Tymber, with a ‘Y,’ a real snotty bitch.” She paused for a moment to think, then said, “With a name like that, what else could she be?”

            “Trish!” Mrs. Davenport said.

            “She was, Mom. She was a cheerleader and Homecoming Queen. Kept telling us that she was going to be a model when she got out.”

            “Did you know why she was at the center?” Nelson said.

            “Everyone knew,” Tricia said. “She was skinny as a rail when she got there. She had taken that modelling shit way too seriously.”

            Mrs. Davenport gave forth a sigh of resignation.

            Nelson said, “Was it anorexia?”

            “No,” Tricia said. “Not that serious. I think it was just her ego. They fattened her up as soon as she got there and they were going to let her out after a few more pounds. She was getting near her normal weight.”

            “Did she talk about her treatment?”

            “She didn’t talk to me much at all,” Tricia said. “I hung out with the ugly girls. But I heard they convinced her that skinny-assed models weren’t the rage anymore.” She paused and smiled. “I would have told her they were only hiring dumb-assed ones that were fat.”

            Mrs. Davenport’s eyes rolled upward. “I have a whole semester of this to endure,” she said. “This one graduated a semester early and doesn’t start college until the summer semester.”

            “Honesty, Mom, honesty,” Tricia said. “Face it, you’ll bawl like a baby when I leave.”

            “As your friend Ernest Hemingway put it,” Mrs. Davenport said. “’Isn’t it pretty to think so?’” They both laughed. Nelson smiled.

            “So she disappeared just before her release?” Nelson said.

            “Just a few pounds away from a clean getaway,” Tricia said.

            “Do you think she ran away?”

            “Everyone thinks so,” Tricia said. “She saw the New York ad firms just waiting for her, and she had no interest in finishing high school. Besides, she was too stupid to.”

            “Did they try to find her?”

            “Not the police, from what I heard. But the ‘Goon Squad’ made a token effort. At least they questioned us about her.”

            “The Goon Squad?”

            “The Nazis from that church in Connorville. They didn’t try that hard to find her, though. One of them told my friend that the Ransom Center was only good for giving some of us the confidence to run away and seek our fortunes.”

            They discussed the center for some time. The Davenports wouldn’t allow Nelson to leave until he had inspected Rose’s greenhouse and Tricia’s collection of Grateful Dead paraphernalia, given to her by a grandfather who, she assured Nelson, had been at Woodstock. They tried to talk him into staying for supper and meeting Mr. Davenport, but Nelson begged off. By the time he left town, it was dark and by the time he reached Tina’s house, she had prepared a meal and was waiting for him.

            As they dined, Nelson filled her in on the day. “Looks like,” Tina said as he finished relating the results of his interviews, “that you got the same impression of that place they call The Ransom Center, as I.”

            “Oh?”

            “The folks that I and my colleagues talked to give it a ‘thumbs-up” professionally. They use scientifically-base treatment methods and medical practices. In addition, they have a higher-then-average success rate. No religious mumbo-jumbo at all, best I can tell.”

            “Interesting,” Nelson said, after a sip of wine. “Wouldn’t one think that a church-supported clinic would at least have them thank some god or other for their cure?”

            “You would think so,” Tina said. “I know I’ve been thanking The Flying Spaghetti Monster each night for mine.”

            Nelson laughed. “You are not only a bad girl, you’re getting worse,” he said.

            “Then we’ll just forget about that good time I promised you,” she said. “I have some papers to grade and you have plenty of reading to do.”

            “Wait a moment,” he said. “I may have been giving some thanks, and requesting favors as well.”

            She paused in mock contemplation. “I suppose Neptune is the stronger god of the two, so tell you what.”

            “What?”

            “Let me brush my teeth and straighten my hair, then I’ll clear the dishes while you grab that shower you requested. We’ll assemble at the designated rendezvous spot.”

            “Sounds like a fine battle plan,” he said.

            “It is,” she said, “but if I were you, I’d rig for some heavy weather.”

            As he took a deep breath, she scurried away toward the bathroom. He finished his wine.

“Hoist the Battle Flag,” he said aloud to himself.

After Nelson completed his shower, he walked down the hall to Tina’s bedroom. Two scented candles were burning on the night stands. A small night light burned on Tina’s side as she lay, her back to Nelson, reading. He dropped his clothes to the floor and raised the sheet. Tina was nude, her silky body turned to him in reverse, inviting but not wanton. As he eased beneath the sheets, she put down her book and turned off the night light. She eased backward toward him but didn’t roll over. Nelson extended an arm and caressed a shoulder. “Would you like a backrub?” he said. She made a purring sound and ease further toward him. His hand continued in motion.

            Tina made the purring sound again and straightened her body. A few moves later, she said, “That’s not my back.”