Three: A Not So Mad Man

Somebody doesn't know how deeply involved she is...

    Frieda Ross slammed the door to her SUV shut and walked through the parking lot. She felt the late September breeze sweep its fingers through her platinum blond hair and caress her hourglass figure.  As always, she ignored the bounce of her double D sized breasts, though that didn’t stop her from feeling the gaze of adolescent gamers from the other lot.
    She had no wish to see him again, regardless of the romance they’d shared twenty years ago. Goodness, had it really been that long? Her twin daughters would be twenty five this week, had they still been alive, so it had been longer than two decades. Frieda felt old.
    She blamed him for their deaths of course, insisting that they live in Boone near him instead of Des Moines where she’d moved after the divorce. Then the killings and disappearances began, The Silver Band Cases, and she’d felt a cold pit of despair settle in her stomach. Somehow she knew her girls were in trouble, and Frieda finally resorted to begging them to get away from that town. Sarah had refused, wanting to help her father through his alcoholism, but Sally gave in.
    After Sarah had proven to be okay for four years, she relaxed a little when Sally made her annual trip to see her twin.  
    “That was a mistake,” she snorted to herself.
    She had a new life, now, a husband and a daughter. She had even had a son, but he had disappeared a month ago.
    Plain as day, she could see the name HAVLIK BROTHERS MENTAL HOSPITAL advertised on the front window.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
    “Yes, I’m here to see Derek Shepherd. I’m his ex-wife.”
    “Alright, and what’s your name?” The lady asked.
    “Frieda Ross.”
    The lady’s eyes narrowed at her in a glare. “He keeps screaming about having a task for you. If I were you, I’d ignore it.” Frieda felt a shiver run down her spine. There was something strangely off about that last statement.
    “Ok…” she said, glancing at the nametag. Margaret Bowman. Frieda decided she’d have a talk with the doctor about the receptionist’s unseemly behavior.
     She sat in the waiting area for a few minutes before he came out to talk to her.  He was tall, middle aged and balding. His eyeglasses had wire rims around thick, bottle cap lenses.  
    “Frieda Ross? I’m a doctor. Nice to meet you.”  When he held out his hand, she shook it hesitantly. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
    “Names are irrelevant, only titles matter. Now, if you follow me I’ll take you to see the Shepherd.”
    Frieda wasn’t sure what to make of him, just that he was strange.  It seemed like he should be locked up in a mental hospital instead of running one. As she walked down the hallway, she decided she still wanted to ask him about Margaret Bowman.
    “Doctor, your receptionist was rather unfriendly toward me. Is she always like that?”
    He chuckled. “Yes, she doesn’t like much of anyone. You should meet her husband, though, he’s even less pleasant. I’m glad we got the graceful one.” Frieda gave a slight nod and decided she’d rather not meet the husband.
    When they reached his room the doctor turned to face her. “Now, before you go in there I should give you fair warning that he’s been rather violent lately, so we had to string him up by his toes and  pour honey in his armpits to calm him down.”
    Frieda stared at him in shock. “Why would…?”
    “No wait,” he interrupted as he checked his clipboard. About a minute went by while he flipped through some pages, then he chuckled nervously, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
    “Sorry about that,” he apologized, “That’s my next appointment. Your guy was just put in a straitjacket. Right through this door, please.”
    Derek looked like s**t, but he smelled worse. His brown hair and beard looked frazzled from electroshock therapy, and the doctors hadn’t taken care of his hygiene. He was sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth and muttering something under his breath.
    Frieda walked closer to hear what he was saying. “I shouldn’t have brought her back, I shouldn’t have brought her back, I shouldn’t have brought her back.”
    “Derek? Its me, Frieda.” The ragged man looked up at her with glazed eyes.
    “Frieda?” He shook his head somberly. “I shouldn’t have brought her back…”
    “No, Derek, you shouldn’t have brought me here. There’s a court order for you to stay away from me now that…” Tears welled up in her eyes, she couldn’t finish.
    “Sally and Sarah… I shouldn’t have brought Sarah back. She was a wolf. Everyone working here is a wolf. They’re regrouping to bring back their king, Sarah told me so after I brought her back.”
    “Stop it!” she screamed, “Just stop it!” But he still he rattled on.
    “I need some things. Very important things. I need the Omen, the Harbinger, the Sentry, and the Titan.”
    “Shut up!” she screamed. She was ready to slap him across the face.
    “That is my task for you, my love,” he finished gently. In that moment of such a compassionate statement, he actually sounded as if he still loved her.
    That was more than she could handle. She raced out of the room, tears streaming down her face, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from him as possible.
    She started up the engine of her SUV and gunned it out of the parking lot, nearly colliding with a teal Geo Metro that screeched to a stop as she raced by.
    “Crazy broad!” yelled the driver, “Watch where your going!”
    ‘F**k you very much, a*****e,’ she thought bitterly to herself, ‘I was driving while you were shitting on your mama’s lap and slobbering peas.”

    When Frieda got home she paid the babysitter and flopped down on the couch, worn from the grief. There wasn’t enough energy in her to make coffee, so she just sat there for hours, watching her six month old crawl around on a blanket. Occasionally she would talk to her daughter. “Samantha, your sisters would have loved you so much,” “Samantha, do you miss your brother? I miss him.” She wasn’t aware she’d fallen asleep until a knock on the door woke her up the next morning.
    She got up groggily, muttering to herself. “Yeah yeah, Jeff, you make the world’s worst security guard because you’re always forgetting the house key.
    The knock came again, this time louder and more insistent. “I’m coming! Hold your spanking horses!” But as she opened the door a voice said, “Mrs. Ross? Detective Rufus Bowman, Homicide.”
    This woke her up. “Yes, I’m Frieda Ross, what’s going on? Have you found my son Jordan?”
    Bowman avoided the question, requesting instead that she sit down.
    “Ok, would you like some coffee? I was about to make some.”
    “No, thank you. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but last night some kids who were camping discovered your husband’s body. It looks like a suicide.”
    Frieda’s mind was spinning. Jeff committing suicide? That wasn’t like him at all. It had to be murder. It had to have been those kids.  Jordan disappearing, Derek going crazy, Jeff dead, it was all too much to handle. Once more, she broke into tears.
    “Are you sure it wasn’t murder?” she sobbed.
    “Well,” replied the detective, “their story is rather strange, but even weirder is that there’s evidence to support that story. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.”
    “Can I talk to them? I want to know everything.”

Author's Note

I personally think that this is my worst chapter, so feel free to offer suggestions for improvement.

Reviews

[Jenni-Chan]

Oh yeah... I was supposed to edit this chapter wasn't i?