Dark Fugitive, page 3
part #2 of Nightshade Series
Though tender affection wasn’t his typical modus operandi, he couldn’t argue that her entreaty was a reasonable trade for what he would take in exchange.
“That’s not my bag, momma,” he avowed, “but it’s a fair request. Since you asked so nicely, come here,” he ordered her, while leaning down and nuzzling his face against hers, as he canoodled her with phony benevolence.
“Bad move,” she whispered exclusively in his ear, as he caressed her neck with his revolting tongue. Before he knew it, she had wrapped her arms around him and secured him in a headlock. “Now, it’s my turn,” she said, smiling back, but with a whole different meaning behind it and without him seeing it.
Dawn heard the drumming again, in the sound of hoofbeats and in the tempo of galloping hooves. The wraith suddenly turned around and wailed loudly at Dawn, just before her wayward daughter killed the scheming deviant. Dawn flicked out her middle finger and jabbed it into the cabbie’s throat, ripping out his larynx. Once again, she could see her hairy hand and razor claw, but nobody else could.
The ditsy concubine in the front seat widened her eyes, but made no effort to scream or escape. What she had just witnessed absolutely terrified her, but she was currently unable to decipher what was realism and what was part of her drug-induced trip. Though the blonde trollop couldn’t see Dawn’s wolf-like attributes, she had watched Dawn remove his voice box with her bare hand and chew on it as if it were a hunk of salt water taffy.
“What size are you?” Dawn asked the conspicuous hussy, looking up to make eye contact while her mouth was smeared with blood.
Minutes later, Dawn deposited the two limp bodies in a dumpster that was conveniently located in the public parking garage, after she was finished helping herself to what she needed. The hired chauffeur and his shameless whore laid there, among the other waste and rubbish, with their entrails hanging out for the spectating world to gander. She had eradicated them both, as savagely as she could. She had, however, shown more mercy to the young vixen, making her demise cleaner and swifter. Both individuals prided themselves on being astute, but they had no idea who or what they were dealing with, when they scorned Dawn. She noticed that one of his glittery, silk, purple stockings had slipped off and gotten left behind on the not-nearly-as squalid ground.
“I hope you had soul,” she said to the dead bodies, walking away from the large trash receptacle. “You’re going to need it,” she added, now wearing the tramp’s clothes, which included double-striped tube socks and a long-sleeved baseball jersey that had pink sleeves and neckline, which screened an iron-on 8”x10” glossy image of Farrah Fawcett-Majors on the white front. Dawn chose to keep her modified hot pants, which were so short, that the bottom half of her ass cheeks were hanging out and the denim was riding up her butt crack. It was her rare thread of fortune that the floozy’s feet matched her size as well.
Purloining what cash they had in his fat wallet and her leather tooled purse, she got back in his taxi and drove to the nearest bus station. This money, along with the bread she had collected from pick-pocketing the recently deceased, allotted her enough to finance a trip to Lexington, Kentucky, and still have some leftover. After making her purchase at the ticket counter, she kneeled down to re-lace and better tie her newly acquired black and white Converse One Star sneakers. Now that she had a pair of dependable tennis shoes, she felt more at ease with the idea of having to dart and dash through the woods. Dawn was rapidly learning to take care of and handle herself, and did so progressively well, but…she wasn’t immortal or invincible. She was also not so naive to think for a second that there weren’t threats out there, who were considerably more dangerous than she.
Dawn drove the yellow cab a mile down the road and parked it in front of a Dutch Pantry restaurant. As she shut the car door behind her, she observed a young man smoking outside of his car, who was leering at her as if he wanted her for dessert. Dawn had become quite the little scamp, and had neither time nor patience for her myriad of male admirers. Linda’s ghost once again manifested and produced a sonorous wail, as Dawn cracked a sinister smile. It’s not that Dawn enjoyed seeing her mother as a spiritual banshee, but she had been so desensitized and disheartened by life, that Linda couldn’t spook or reach her.
Moments later, Dawn walked her sweet ass back to Greyhound and waited at the indoor bus stop, holding the ticket she had just bought. She was wearing the guy’s gray, hooded sweat jacket, and had left the body next to his car with his throat slit and his dick hard. Dawn had helped herself to inheriting the guy’s suede rucksack, which he had sitting on the passenger’s seat. Uncertain of the wait she was facing, she takes a load off and sits between two people on the bench. The place is overcrowded, as if she had decided to travel at the worst possible time. She notices that the Korean woman, sitting on her right, is reading the newspaper. There is also a different periodical laying on the woman’s lap. Dawn sees that her Falls Church massacre had made national news, as she found herself the primary subject of a headline in both the New York Post and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. The word was out, and she was a star.
Dawn knew that she would be hunted for her display of brutal fatality back at the hospital. She estimated that it would only be a matter of time before she was trapped, so the only thing she could do in the meantime was make it as hard for them as she could. As she sat and waited, between the unpleasant sweat and body odor, she found herself wishing she had taken a train instead. Bored and uncomfortable, she attempted to alleviate her awkwardness by fidgeting her thumbs, as she folded her hands together on her lap. Trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone, hoping to avoid being recognized, she pulled the gray hood as far as it would go over her forehead, and started to stare at her hand. As she held it in front of her, she took turns looking at either side. In her eyes, she still saw hair and claws, but to everyone else…she had a normal human hand. Dawn’s mind was gone, and her humanity was clearly out the window. Reuben had been the one treasure to fall into her lap, but God saw fit to take as quickly as he had given. Dawn would make sure that God paid for putting a hex on her that she could never take off.
Men, women, and children alike, all stare at her as if she was the erotic version of the Mona Lisa. She wasn’t seen as a barbaric monster, but as a dazzling specimen. Her short shorts certainly didn’t help her not be noticed. As she sits on the bus, she looks in the clouded window beside her, and descries hoary streaks in her hair, mainly affecting her front bangs and around the back ends. She rushes to the on-board restroom, and locks the door behind her. She slides her hood back and skittishly runs her clammy hands through her hair, only to wind up with clumps of it in her hands. What perplexes her even more is that, as much as it sheds, it immediately grows back after falling out.
“Hmm,” she said, as she picked something off the floor, which she spotted laying between the dirty sink and the even filthier toilet. It looked to be a brochure of sorts, and as she unfolded it, she interpreted it to be appropriate fortuity. It was an educational pamphlet on astrology, particularly on the full moon and how it relates and connects to Mars and the Ram, which were both tied to her Aries birthday. She briefly considered lending her attention to this metaphysical concept, but the flirt was fleeting. She dropped it, leaving it where she had found it, and returned to her economy seat.
Agent Shelling shows up at Reverend Moon’s domicile, in what looks to be a normal suburb of Silver Spring. There are several motorcycles parked in front of the abode, along with even more secrets buried underneath it. Mingan answers Shelling’s knock, and shows up at the door wearing ceremonial regalia that is made of brown buffalo hide. He is covered in roots, claws, fangs, horns, feathers, and furs. His hair is long and braided, and looks as if it hadn’t been washed in quite a while.
“Reverend Moon?”
“Yes?” the Chief answered, while emitting an odor that smelled like a combination of sweetgrass and tobacco.
“My name is Agent Shelling. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigations,” he properly introduced himself, while showing his badge. “I’m sorry to…” Agent Shelling can barely hear himself talk, as there are loud, totemic instrumentals playing in the background. The observant Reverend turns his head and calls back to his girlfriend to turn down the stereo that is playing the mixed compact cassette. “I’m sorry, Reverend. Is this a bad time? Am I interrupting something?”
“I am sorry. My tribe has come to have a domestic powwow, in honor of my recent engagement to my aponi.”
“I see. Well, congratulations, Chief. I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m investigating a massacre that your daughter is suspected of committing,” he briefed the surprisingly indifferent father on the situation.
“Dawn?” the apathetic Reverend asked, fraudulently posing as being distraught.
“I’m afraid so, Reverend. I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m the one who’s sorry. Please, come inside,” he invited the Agent into his humble home, holding the screen door open for him.
The living room is permeated with the stench of peyote, which a couple of the houseguests are still smoking and tripping on. There is laughter, rejoicing, and feasting. The ceiling is adorned with sagging, Southwestern quilts. There are lava lamps and dream catchers, and windows made from stained glass. A woman, who appeared to be half Mingan’s age, casually brushed past Agent Shelling, wearing a denim vest and a tight mini-skirt made of sackcloth. She had an eagle feather in her beaded headband, and her skirt was hiked up high enough to leave nothing to the imagination. She wasn’t wearing any panties, as the bottom half of her butt was exposed. The sexually-frustrated federal Agent took notice, while trying to play it off as if he was too professional to appreciate her perfectly shaped Indian ass. Reverend Mingan wore a bone necklace, while Agent Shelling carried a different bone in his trousers.
“I am truly ashamed to hear of what my daughter has done,” the perverted Chief immediately apologized, ploying as if he had no card to play in the lousy hand she was dealt. The counterfeit Reverend wasn’t oblivious to Agent Shelling’s drooling over his trophy girlfriend, Wanema, but decided to ignore that and concentrate on the Bureau’s unwelcome interest in his hopeful prodigal. “My daughter has always had a bit of Sedit in her, I’m afraid. I often suffer this upsetting vision that she has become a malfunctioning member of society, addicted to drugs, sleeping on park benches, and soliciting in dark alleys. What can I do to help?”
Agent Shelling didn’t even question what the minister meant by the word, Sedit, even though he was completely in the dark, regarding its definition. He found it unsettling and suspicious that the Cherokee widower didn’t fight the idea of his only daughter being presumed guilty of such heinous assassinations. The Native preacher didn’t seem shocked or bothered that his child was the lead suspect of such horrific atrocities. He had expected to be met with resistance, and figured he’d have to resort to threatening her father with a search warrant, but neither was necessary. It significantly crept him out that the good Reverend was so serene about the pending homicide charges.
“Has she attempted to contact you? Does she have any other family or friends she might seek asylum with?” he asked the Cherokee minister, happy to see him cooperating, but sensing a darkened and even demonic effusion about him.
“No,” Reverend Moon answered. “Though, if she did, you know I would have to grant her sanctuary, and would have every legal right to do so. That said, however, I am obliged and obligated to do whatever I can to accommodate you and your laws.”
“I will find her,” Agent Shelling affirmed, trying to both convince the Reverend and himself.
“You won’t find her. Dawn is young, but she’s cunning. She knows how to evade and elude predators. You won’t be able to track her. She has too much of the wolf spirit in her,” her father insisted, not knowing half of the truth he just spoke. The raunchy reverend had just gotten back from losing much of the church’s funds, while at a Baltimore casino that he covertly frequented.
“Did Dawn have a happy childhood?” Agent Shelling asked, anxious to hear the Chief’s response.
“Absolutely,” Reverend Moon promptly replied, lying through his yellowed teeth.
“Do you have a recent photo of your daughter?” he asked the relaxed preacher, while looking at the many displayed, framed pictures of the family. “That is, one which you wouldn’t mind letting me have?”
“Absolutely,” Mingan acknowledged. “In fact, I have one that was taken just weeks before she was admitted into the mental hospital. I’ll go fetch it,” he said, leaving the FBI investigator alone in his living room.
Agent Shelling had noticed that the pastor reeked of body odor, and could smell the mixture of cheap liquor and cigar smoke on his fetid breath. He was no one to surmise or chastise anyone, as he had dark sins of his own, but he detected that this man had no business making a living as a man of the cloth. As he waits for the evangelical Chief to return with the photo, he is startled to find another Indian sitting in the lotus position with his eyes closed, as if lost in deep meditation. The man is dressed entirely in faded blue denim, accompanied with a beaded belt, and sterling silver rings on his fingers. As the FBI investigator stares in bewilderment at the ensconced Indian, astonished that he can be at such peace amongst such disturbance, the Indian opened his left eye and returned his focused gaze.
“To find her,” he said, “you must first find yourself; and even if you attain that enlightenment, you can’t catch a coyote unless she wants to be caught,” the mohawk-styled aborigine told the Fed, as he cocks a half smile and laughs, while flicking him off with both hands that had been resting on his knees.
As Agent Shelling begins to feel the effects of the secondhand peyote smoke, his head starts to spin fast, as he turns his attention to the 5”x7” graduation photo that Reverend Moon just handed him. As the dizzy Agent scrutinizes at the school picture, he hallucinates, seeing Dawn become animated in the high school photograph. She rises off the picture, as if a hologram sitting up in its tomb. Dawn’s cap and gown fall off her slender body, as she speaks to him.
“You’re wasting your time, buckaroo. I’m too fast for you,” his optical illusion of Dawn says with fierce intimidation, as he rubs his eyes. Her hair and body are dripping wet with sweat and tears. Her mouth salivates, while she breathes heavily. Her blue eyes roll into the back of her head and the whites turn blood red. Her mouth hangs open to show Agent Shelling her teeth, which are long and sharp. Though her facade was intended to be scary, he could tell that she was scared. What he failed to see, however, was that she wasn’t scared of him, but of herself.
“Take me to her room!” Agent Shelling insists, pocketing the talking photograph and barely able to maintain his balance. He knows he has been outwitted, but refuses to leave that domicile without first seeing Dawn’s bedroom. He squints his eyes, trying his best to see, despite his temporarily blurred vision. “Take me to her room!” he repeated in a hostile tone, grabbing her father by the collar. “Take me to her room, and I’ll leave,” he promised. “I swear to God.”
Though the drugged Fed could barely walk, Reverend Moon helped him to Dawn’s room. Once Agent Shelling moved away from the peyote smoke, he began to regain his composure and stand on his own. He anxiously shifted and snooped through her things, hoping to find something that might help him track her, or at least explain why she became such an animal.
He spotted a delicate jewelry box on top of her dresser, which had a majestic painting of a wolf on the lid. He opened it, and found a matchbook cover from the Waldorf nightclub, The Moonlight Inn. As he held it firmly in his closed hand, he could see flashes of her in his mind, of her lounging and flirting inside the club, trying to persuade the men to buy her drinks. She wasn’t there for the bands, but for the booze.
As he invaded her privacy by rummaging through her belongings, he stumbled upon a belt that looked unlike any he had seen before. As he held it up to his face, to get a closer and better look at it, he saw that the belt was made of wolf fur and what appeared to be either animal or human skin. He suddenly felt sick, but pleased to see that the belt wasn’t made of human vagina, confusing the American Indians for the Islamic tradition of female genital mutilation.
“Do you have any more questions for us?” Rev. Mingan faked being polite, perturbed that the nosy Agent was so interested in his toothsome daughter.
“No,” the FBI Agent punctually answered, while covering his mouth as if to keep himself from puking. “I believe I’m done here.”
With her brown tote backpack reposed between her feet, Dawn looks out the partially frosted window, as the weather continued to draw nearer to Winter’s ruthless disposition. As she left Pennsylvania, her scenery slightly changed. She soon no longer saw coal mines and steel mills, but continued to see country-styled homes sporadically spread alongside the road, clotheslines arranged in the yard, and gas stations with rusted tin signs. There were plenty of mom-n-pop stores advertising homemade pies, and haystack cluttered, open farmland. She even sees a hitchhiker, holding a cardboard sign that says he will do anything for a ride. She sighed in fertilized misery and slowly shook her head, in remembrance of her lousy experience as a reluctant nomad.
NOVEMBER 2, 1977
WANING GIBBOUS
The free press had allocated wall-to-wall news coverage to Dawn and her indiscriminate bloodbath. She had swiftly become an urban legend, taking no time at all to climb up the bloody ladder of infamy. The FBI was also proving to be an integral part in turning Dawn’s sanguinary crusade into a media frenzy. The chase was on full force, and she was hastily making a name for herself as a serial killer. As families watched on their tubular televisions and intently listened to their portable Philips radios, the impuissant nation was advised to stay indoors and be on constant lookout for the sensual, but sinister, Indian-flavored basket case.
The police switchboard is swamped with calls, testifying to exaggerated near-death sightings and accurately describing Dawn’s titillating package. Line-ups become a daily routine, never leading anywhere, as they bring in any female off the street who has olive or tan skin. The police and the Feds get lost in being overwhelmed and disorganized, as they struggle to coordinate between each other, with faxes, blood samples, and the like.
