TAG 307891116540 Slanton Ashley
She has used part of the CIA string
“307891116” & has converted into March 11, 1987. That means,
6540 is backwards for her birth time, translating into 04:56.
“Found it!” She echoes, loudly then neck snaps around empty
hallway. She returns to screen & checks “second” Ashley who is
birthed on 8:37 am.
Pamela whispers, softly & grins, toothy.
“Fake and flaunting it, baby.” She presses, quickly the “third” and
hopefully “real” Ashley Slanton. The birth certificate matches 4:56
am to CIA string of 04:56. “Gotta love military time.” Military
time is the concise method of expressing time used by military,
emergency services of law enforcement, firefighters and nurses. The
military operates off a 24-hour clock, beginning at midnight (which
is 0000 hours). So, 1:00 a.m. is 0100 hours, 2:00 a.m. is 0200
hours and so-on.
Voices sounds, lightly. Footfalls move,
nosily. Wheels squeak, loudly.
“Cleaning staff.” Pamela talks, alarmingly
& checks time: 12:30 am. “Shift change…” She moans, softly.
She back tracks to demographical paper &
scribbles first words of address then stops, suddenly. “Fake, it’s
all fake but not her physician.” Ashley’s alive and based on all
the different kinds of fake medical records is being treated
medically for something. Thurston was killed so, maybe shoot-out
with real guns and bullets.
She paws, quickly through the details of
clinical procedures from blood tests to X-rays, then medical notes
for any useful information. She notes, rapidly nine different
physician names while scribbling down on notepad in clear hand
writing since she can’t print any hard copies of electronic medical
files.
Voices sounds, heavy. Footfalls move,
closely. Wheels squeak, nosily. “
“Hospital staff…” Pamela moans, baby-tonish.
She pokes computer to page 24 reading last page of medical notes
from top bar detailing:
Psychological treatment prescribed by Dale
Kirby, Elisa Wissa and Toma Brown.
Pamela scripts, rapidly names of
psychologists onto notepad, then shuts down computer by slapping
the power button. She drops, quickly on fours, knees & palms,
dragging her small backpack as hospital personnel move against
opposite wall. She crawls, forwardly toward hallway against wall,
then turns left into smaller corridor. She leans, heavily against
wall & bends, worm-like into open hallway searching for
staffers. Clear!
She stands, swiftly & patrols, quietly
towards stairwell for freedom then departs, happily for new search
of Ashley’s “real” medical physician.
Time: 9:52 am. Friday. Dale Kirby, MD. 1730
Oxmoor Road, Homewood, Alabama. Sunny. 98*F.
She finds, slowly correct physician office
building located on Oxmoor Road in Homewood after spending $6.75
dialing wrong telephone numbers and answering rude grouchy
secretary questions while pretending to be Ashley & inquiring
about her next clinical session.
Pamela enters, bravely private nice plush
cooled air/conditioned beige/gold reception room with two short
padded benches, freshly trimmed green tree plants & empty
receptionist chair. She sits, quietly & types on terminal
verifying Ashley’s appointment at 10am. Good!
Knock! Knock!
Pamela enters, slowly
office, eye burning messy desk, homey bookcase, crowded wall of
medical awards, comfortable long couch.
“Dr. Kirby.” Pamela greets in flute soprano,
friendly. “I’m a new patient. There’s no one at the desk. Are you
here, Dr. Kirby?” She moves, swiftly into office, ponders, deeply.
“Not here, coffee lover, too.” She shuffles back into lobby at
receptionist desk. Computer is booted. No patients in waiting
area.
Pamela re-enters small cramped room without
windows, poking around desk, then notes two visually painted beige
doors on opposite sides of room. She opens door on her left, first
seeing reams of stairs. “Escape hatch. Noted.” Pamela mumbles in
soprano flute, giggles, lightly.
She slides, gently to right, opens, gently
door, gasps, nosily.
Girl greets, friendly, eye burns sofa. “Hi,
Dr. Dale. Tammy’s not at her desk.”
She slams, nosily door. Pamela body twists to
see petite blonde hair girl walk-in toward long sofa. She sits,
nosily at desk, turns desk lamp toward edge of desk, disguising her
odd appearance. Girl doesn’t notice.
Girl lays, sideways on long sofa, bushes flip
flops onto carpet, measures lengthwise entire body as toes massage
end of arm and arms crossed over her chest, breathing regular.
Pamela charges, boldly in bass flute. “Good
morning, sit down…lie down. Good. Let’s begin...”
Girl talks, calmly, eye burns ceiling of
small office. “Thurston exploded, yesterday. I have not received
any news from hospital. Is he okay, doctor?”
1 second.
2 seconds.
3 seconds.
Pamela ponders, deeply valid response to
query or maybe, she’ll sneak out escape door. However, she needs
answers to her numerous questions and assistance getting out of
trouble that Ashley can supply.
“Thurston’s fine and dandy.” Pamela cringes,
awkwardly with big fat lie. “Where were you and Thurston located,
yesterday, Ashley?”
Ashley talks, calmly, eye burns ceiling.
“Thurston exploded, yesterday. I have not received any news from
hospital. Is he okay, doctor?”
Pamela questions, logically since that’s the
place she looking for. “What location did Thurston get hurt,
Ashley?”
Girl does not attempt to change her voice,
manner or move from sofa. Pamela understands, sorta her mental
state of mind. Ashley doesn’t know what happened to poor Thurston
and lives in some kinda time warp, wondering, pondering, re-living
her awful forever midnight from the CIA mission. Poor thing!
Ashley talks, calmly, eye burns ceiling.
“Thurston exploded, yesterday. I have not received any news from
hospital. Is he okay, doctor?”
Here for answers, she decides, unwisely to
seek them. “Who is Tag?”
“I am.” Ashley talks, calmly, eye burns
ceiling. Pamela nods, once thinking Ashley remembers,
completely.
Pamela questions, bravely. “Who is IT?”
Ashley mice-squeaks, uprights on elbows,
buttocks, legs then feet on carpet. “Find it…find it… find it…find
it…”
Pamela stands, swiftly & holds,
vertically palms in air wondering what to do next. She talks,
nervously in soprano flute. “We will find it. Okay, Ashley? We will
find it.” Ashley lays, gently down, stretching legs, and arms over
entire length of sofa. Pamela repeats, softly. “Alright, Ashley!
Shhh! Just relax and breathe deeply.”
Girl breathes, heavily.
Pamela studies, intensively papers on desk.
Top document lists series of numbered questions for Ashley. Pamela
reads fast & discovers Thurston explosion occurred in Chalk
Cave. She can use stolen library book to research that particular
site location which is somewhere in the Birmingham area. She skims
rest of questions with provided answers finding useless data. She
stops, suddenly & eye burns Ashley. Ashley rests, calmly on
sofa.
Pamela whispers, softly. “It’s not here. The
question’s not here.”
Ashley talks, calmly, eye burns ceiling.
“Thurston exploded, yesterday. I have not received any news from
hospital. Is he okay, doctor?”
She scans, twice looking for the answer to
her active mental question then shifts, nosily around crowded
office & kneels beside Ashley. Pamela inquires, tenderly. “Who
is BOA?”
“Preston.” Ashley whispers, softly, eye burns
ceiling.
Pamela shakes, sideways black skull. “Not
Preston.” Okay, Preston works for FBI but she does, also with mega
loads of secret information. For two weeks with Preston, Pamela
knows everything about him, his favorite jazz song, his favorite
alcoholic drink, his favorite tickle. She giggles, lightly.
Pamela repeats, softly, holds, tenderly
girl’s hands. “Ashley, who is really BOA?”
“Preston.” Ashley whispers, twice.
Noise sounds, loudly. Voices rumble, deeply.
Footfalls stomp tile, swiftly.
“Preston’s here.” Pamela leaps, uprightly
& eye burns closed office door.
Pamela grabs backpack, ducks out door, flees
downs stairs into partially cracked door of EXIT archway from
professional office building. She flings door open & stops,
suddenly.
“Hey! Don’t close that door.” Invisible body
tenor voice yells, loudly.
Pamela holds, preciously door with hand &
surveys, quickly outdoor space, smoking area. She touches, gently
cigarette box & cigarette lighter in lab coat with free hand.
Dr. Dale Kirby smokes.
She shuts, carefully door holding big
odd-shaped limestone rock between frame and door preventing closure
so smokers can re-enter building freely without trucking around
front entrance.
Pamela grabs, tenderly cigarette from box
& slides, slowly into cuddy hidey hole between window &
concrete wall. She shifts collar of lab coat against her neck,
hiding facial prolife.
She lights, roughly on second try cigarette
& holds, horizontally to ground appearing like regular smoker
& prays, swiftly she’s doesn’t start coughing.
Pamela doesn’t smoke or drink alcohol only
because her parents don’t engage in those bad habits. Everyone has
some type of bad habits. She has, also.
She closes, slowly eyelids while standing in
her silly clown disguise of yellow & purple fake hair pieces
couple with baby blue scrubs & sweats beneath the multiple
layers of sweat sets. She hears, nosily combo of voices, boots
& shouts.
Preston & company are stomping down the
back stairs. She doesn’t see their faces but hears voices,
clearly.
Door creaks, steadily open. “Hey, man! Don’t
slam that door.” Invisible body in tenor voice hollers,
sharply.
Preston moves, cautiously onto short bricked
yellow patio & scans, slowly patio, grass, trees, bushes,
people then back to empty stairway. Arthur rushes down stairs &
stumbles, painfully into him.
“She here?” Arthur talks, hurriedly while
breathing oxygen.
Preston comments, slowly & eye burns
outdoors. “Naw, just smokers.”
Arthur points, rudely pass Preston’s nose in
direction. “She fled that way…maybe.”
Preston concludes, swiftly. “No figure moving
North and no other spot to hide with open, wide terrain. She exited
on separate floor during our chase.”
Arthur suggests, strongly. “You ask smokers
while I start checking upper floors.”
“Pamela doesn’t smoke or drink. She ain’t
here. Damn it!” Preston eye burns skyline then building patio back
to Arthur. “Go around side, check for any clues of her hiding in
the manicured bushes. I’ll go talk with Ashley Slanton, hear if she
saw anything weird.” Preston orders. Arthur nods, once, moves out
of sight of Preston and door. Preston hustles back up stairs.
Pamela leans, heavily into wall as she hears
their angry words, their positive actions & negative reactions
since they can’t find her. She’s in deep black puppy poopy.
However, Pamela has new lead, Chalk Cave. She’s going spelunking.
She ditches cigarette & smacks it dead with sneaker heel then
walks, daring into manicured lawn toward concrete sidewalk. She’s
about 10 blocks from Homewood Public Library for researching caving
procedures into Chalk Cave.
Dale Kirby’s private office
.
Larry greets, professionally at rear door,
thumbs, backwardly. “Preston…two dead bodies in back room four
holes in chest.”
Preston marches behind Larry & orders,
commandingly then slaps his back muscles. “Larry, get on horn and
call EMS and get us more help. We search entire building for
Pamela.”
“Roger.” Larry yells, loudly walks toward
archway.
“Ashley.” Stockton purrs, softly, kneels,
swiftly beside her, holds, gently her pale hands.
“How’s she doing?” Preston leans, heavily
into sofa.
“Geneva?” Stockton quips, nervously, stands,
swiftly away from Preston, sofa and Larry locked
between door & wall.
“Preston!” Geneva squawks,
ear-piercingly.
Preston body twists 180 degrees, swiftly,
greets deep baritone trombone & holds, vertically palms in air
as she swings, directly Colt .45 in his face. “Good to see ya,
Geneva.”
“Geneva, where did she come from?” Larry
questions, shockingly & holds, vertically palms in air while
Geneva emerges, fully from stair well door, points, directly two
guns at Preston.
“Back room.” Preston answers, clearly,
pondering Geneva has been hiding, listening entire time spying,
waiting for answers, also. Geneva doesn’t know, either. He grins,
toothy.
“I found only them bodies….” Larry empties,
incompletely.
Preston fills, completely. “…back room. Why
ya kill these nice, innocent people, Geneva?”
“Preston...?” Geneva smiles, evilly, sways
both Colts at Preston.
Preston rumbles in deep baritone trombone,
grins, toothy. “Didn’t expect to find me, here? I tracked Pamela,
here. I’m FBI. I’m good at my job.”