Precious Cargo
Copyright 2010
By William Gibson
Chapter One - Part 1 - Raw, unproofed, unedited
Something woke him up.
“It must be Wednesday” thought the Right Reverend Bishop Perry Smalltooth, Bishop Perry to his friends and parishoners, Littlebit to Margolis, his lovely bride of lo these twenty years, just plain Perry to himself and to his dear, but nonetheless deceased, half-Cuban mom who had passed away from the effects of a gangrenous bowel right in the middle of her performance in a volunteer late-night kareoke and exdesiastic display for her fellow-residents at the Christopher, Shank, Pearlboy and Beaujolais Nursing Home in Thonotosasa, just outside of Tampa.
Had to be Wednesday. Or maybe it was Tuesday.
He, as was his habit, tried to turn onto his right side with a view to sitting up, putting his feet on the floor and getting out of bed - but - as every other morning for the last few years - the thing that was once well-oiled and smooth just wouldn’t work out at all unless he, as he rolled, lifted his rightt leg to the sky, letting it then fall and letting its falling weight leverage him haltingly upright - all of this a procedure that Margolis tried very, very hard to not know anything about and all of it unnecessary had his massive chest not fallen and become his massive gut some eight or ten years back.
“I have to know” he thought. “If it’s Wednesday, I’ve got to prepare for the mid-week service this evening. And if it’s Tuesday then I didn’t really preach the widow Johnston’s funeral yesterday and I’ve got to get ready to do it today.”
“Got to get up.” He heaved. Nothing happened. Heaved again, and once again, while pushing on the mattress with his palms. “Aha. We’re up” He Stumbled through the doorway into the hall, turning to quietly shut the door lest he wake the ever-lovely Margolis: Magoo to him.
“Damn cat”, he thought as Mister Fluff twined ‘round his ankles, feigning affection while trying as hard as possible to trip him for the humor of the thing but getting nothing but a kick for his efforts.
“Damn cat”, again, as he reached down and scratched behind its ears.
And into the bathroom.
BING BONG.
The sound rang out through the entirety of the building. The sound of a car running over the liquor store drive-by window alarm. That was what had awakened him.
At seven in the morning? Who would try to buy their booze at seven in the morning? He stumbled back into the hall and headed for the drive-through window. “Damn cat.”
Fight to recover balance while the frightened stepped-on cat attempts to scale the wall with a sound very much like “Yeowmytail.”
“Littlebit, what’s going on?” This from Magoo - and rightly so poor dear.
BING BONG.
“Say what?” Through the living area, through the sanctuary, through the choir loft. “Damn cat.” “Yeowmypaw.” “Littlebit, what’s happening?”
BING BONG.
Unlatch the drive by window. Swing the shutters open. No car. “What?” No car.
“What’s that?” Sometimes the mind has trouble processing what the eyes don’t want to see.
BING BONG.
“Littlebit?”
“I t’s okay Magoo, I’ve got it.” There. Right there. Laying on the alarm trigger stretched across the driveway. A pile of clothes? A pile of clothes and lots and lots of blood? And a hand? And bloody hair? A girl? A dead naked girl inside a bloody blanket in the drive-through lane of the liquor store/church/home/tattoo parlor/piercing palace?
“What’s that? What’s that?” It moved. “Oh God.” It moved again. “Oh God.”
Bishop Perry shuffled quickly to the door. Wide awake now. A major burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins. “What’s that?” He fumbled with the keys, dropping them on the concrete floor. “Oh God.”
He dropped to his knees and tried to grasp the keys. Finally getting a grip he started to rise and suddenly remembered who, and how old and just how fat he was and crawled to the counter, using it to lift himself onto his feet.
Back to the door. Keys into the lock. Turn. Pull.
“Uhhleeuh” Very soft, very, very high up on the scale.
“Oh God.”
More movement. And something pink. Small and pink. A little ball, slowly emerging from the rags.
“Oh God. Oh my Jesus, Oh God in Heaven, help me.”
The pink ball began to open, like a flower. Pink petals, short and stubby. Five of them. “Oh my Jesus help me please.”
“Uueeelllooowww.” A little louder this time.
“Oh Lord, please no, please no, please no.”
The Reverend turned loose of the door which then began to slowly shut, and haltingly stumbled towards the bloody mess.
“Youwowlouwowyeeeee…” Loud. Piercing. Insistent.
“NO, NO, NO. My God. God help me.” The Reverend pulled the rags apart, revealing a very dead white girl and a very much alive infant, both covered, head to toe, with blood. One breathing and crying, the other not. One with bullet holes, one seemingly unhurt.
“Oh God, oh God.”
“Littlebit, what’s going on?” This from the door.
“Oh God, oh God. Don’t come out here Magoo. Go. Get me a big towel. A big clean towel. Hurry. Hurry now. A big white towel. Hurry for the love of God.” He dropped to one knee, folded all the rags apart, reached down and lifted the bloody child, cradling it in arms that were not unfamiliar with the handling of an infant.
Up. Only by a superhuman effort, but up. Onto his feet. Half run, half shuffle to the door. Magoo shoving the door open, reaching out and taking the infant into a large white towel, she too being familiar with all things having to do with infants.
Bishop Perry stumbled in and to the counter, hands down on the edge he bent forward and, gasping, tried to catch his breath. The adrenaline had done its job but now there was the Devil to pay.
He reached across the counter, knocking an entire display of one ounce Tiger Milk samples over the counter and onto the floor, rolling in several directions simultaneously. He grasped the cordless phone, held it close to his face to see what he was doing, “Oh God. Help me God.” He punched the numbers. 9-1-1… And nothing happened. Then he realized and pressed the “talk” button.
“Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“This is Bishop Perry at the liquor store on Old 301 in Thonotosassa. There’s a dead girl here. She’s in my drive-through. And there’s a baby. A little baby. It’s alive. Please, send somebody. Hurry. Please. Hurry. Please. Send somebody now.” He dropped the phone to the floor. And then he dropped himself, sliding down the counter to the cold concrete, sobbing, praying, “Oh God. My God. Lord God Jehovah. Yahweh. Save the baby. Save him Jesus. Help him Lord.”
“Littlebit, he’s okay. I’m cleaning him and then I’m going to get him something to eat. Are you okay?” This from the other room, the parlor of the living quarters.
“I’m okay.” He lied.
He heard, faintly, the sound of sirens, still some miles away. Help on the way. “Thank God.”
And then he saw the movement, off to the side. Something. Something had moved. And maybe a tiny sound. And there it was again.
The door. The door was very slightly ajar and had moved a tiny bit. “Damn cat.”
And then it swung open. Swung open and just hung there. He saw nobody coming in. “That wasn’t the cat.” Slowly he inched his way up from the floor until he stood, looking towards the door.
Still nothing.
“Mister?”
The voice was that of a young child. A child in the awful grip of fear. He quickly, but gently moved to the door, looked around the jamb. “Mister?”
A girl. Four, maybe five years old. Blond. Delicate and fragile. Wearing what would have been a cute white ruffled dress with sheep and a little girl with a shepherd’s crook embroidered on the front, and all around, top and bottom, front and sides and back, spatters of blood. Blood spattered on that beautiful, frightened face. Tears, old and new. Terror in the eyes. “Mister? Mister, please. Is Bobby okay?”
His heart was swelling in his chest until it felt the size of a basketball. An intense pain, as though it were about to burst. “Yes dear, Bobby’s okay. Now you come on in and let’s get you safe. Then my wife will help you get cleaned up. Are you hurt anywhere?”
“No sir, I’m not hurt. Except my heart hurts for my mom. She’s dead isn’t she?”
“Dear, I’m pretty sure she is.” He encouraged her to step in and gently shut the door behind her. “You stay here a minute, let me get my wife. Her name’s Magoo.”
“MAGOO. MAGOO. I’ve got another little one for you” He encouraged her to step in and gently shut the door behind her.
Magoo came quickly through the door, saw the child, absorbed it all in one split second, stepped quickly to the girl, knelt down and hugged the bloody little girl to her ample and already blood soiled breast, all the while mumbling soothing caring sounds. She quickly bustled the child into the other room.
The sirens were nearly there. He went outside to meet them. He stood, several feet in front of the body, arms away from his sides, palms out, a non-threatening posture and demeanor. An older black man knows the drill. The Reverend was both older and black. And here he was with a dead white girl and two white children in his home.
The first car slid sideways into the parking lot and a young man got quickly out. He looked in every direction in less than a second, focusing on the black man’s hands and, simultaneously, on the white girl on the ground in the blood. Other cars came sliding in, all with flashing lights. In the near distance was a different sounding siren.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Polite but very firm, hand resting on his sidearm. Other officers got out of other cars, assumed the same alertness.
“Officer, I’m the one that called. They call me Bishop Perry and this is my home and church and business. There’s a girl here. I’m certain that she’s dead. Please check on her for me. She’s been all shot up and I don’t see any signs of life.”
An ambulance pulled up, a paramedic and an EMT climbed down. The first officer and the two EMS people approached the body, knelt and, in just a matter of seconds, stood up. The officer turned to Bishop Perry, hand still on his firearm. “She’s dead. Is the shooter here?”
“Sir, I have no idea. He’s not in the house so far as I know but I have no idea who or where he is. Neither do I know the young lady. She had two children with her. One is an infant, the other is maybe five years old. They’re in the house with my wife and do not appear to be injured.”
An unmarked car pulled up and a distinguished middle-aged man got out. He had the look of someone who had tasted war. He came to the little group and introduced himself. “Thank you officer, I’ll take it from here.” Turning towards Bishop Perry, “I’m Detective Royce James and I’ll be in charge of this matter. Can you tell me what is going on?”
“Yes sir, I can.” And the Reverend told him the entire story to date.
--- More to come ---
