The Bad Lady (Novel) (17 page)

“No, no, no, young man, I want you to stay in here?”

I stopped, swung myself around. “What for?”

“Because you and me need to come up with a plan.”

Grudgingly, I returned to the living room and resumed my seat.

“I want my mother back!” I wail rebelliously.

“Stop saying that.”

“I want her back! And I want you to go away. Please, Mary Kate, just go away!”

The bad lady kicked the wall. “You hurt me, Billy,” she shouts. “Do you realize that? You really hurt me. All I do is go out of my way to give you the best in life, and this is the thanks I get. ‘I want you to go away.’ Who do you think puts the clothes on your back, provides you with three square meals a day, not to mention all the junk food you eat? And who do you think puts a roof over your head, gives you a dry bed to sleep in at night? It’s not your mother. I can tell you that right now. No. I’m the one with the talent in this household. I’m the one who writes all of those greeting cards that brings in the money that we live on. And you and your mother have the nerve to refer to me as the bad lady . . . Don’t you think there’s something wrong with that description, young man?”

The bad lady had me so unbelievably confused and shaken up, I just wanted to bolt out of the house, and run away. I desperately needed some peace and quiet.

PART ELEVEN

POLICE INVESTIGATION

CHAPTER 23

As anticipated, at seven o’clock that same day, a half dozen of Ohio’s finest showed up at our doorstep.

Apparently, one of Nancy’s neighbors had witnessed the vicious hit and run, and had given the authorities my mother’s license plate number as well as a description of her car. The nameless neighbor had also reported that, inside the blue Toyota Corolla, they had seen what they believed to be a small male child, sitting in the backseat.

I knew this would happen.

I knew there was no way that goddamn bad lady could purposely, in broad daylight, run down Nancy Sutcliffe, and get away with it. This wasn’t the movies; you can’t get away with something like that in real life. People who commit horrendous crimes like this always get busted. Always!

Now sadly, because of Mary Kate’s homicidal actions, my mom, who, from my point of view, had always been an upstanding member of society, would be the one who would have to ultimately pay the price. Now, I had been thinking, my mom would be thrown in jail for the rest of her life. The realization made me numb.

When the police started to bombard her with questions regarding the matter (already more or less accusing my mother of committing the heinous crime), she denied everything.

“Miss hall, if you’re referring to Nancy Sutcliffe, I repeat, she was killed today. Nancy Sutcliffe was struck down by a hit and run driver. And in light of what our witness has said, we have reason to believe that you’re the primary suspect.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my mom tells the cops, while standing on the front porch.

About twenty minutes before the officers had rung the bell; I suspect that my mother had been in the bathroom again administering her alleged diabetic medication. (The heroin) I emphasize that because when she had come out of there, seeming spaced out and lost, I noticed that, like before, she had her syringe and bandanna wrapped loosely in the same hand towel. I think she stored the drug paraphernalia in one of her bedroom drawers, presumably tucked underneath a mountain of folded clothes.

“So then Miss Hall,” the Deputy Sheriff conducting the formal interview says authoritatively, “you’re telling us that, this afternoon, you weren’t on South Street?” Partially bald with pepper-gray hair, a face as hard as granite, and broad shoulders, I would estimate that the Sheriff’s Deputy had to be the oldest cop in the group. In my opinion, he might have been in his mid to upper fifties. The other four uniformed officers, who stood on the lawn near the steps to the porch, appeared, to me, to be in their twenties or thirties.

“Was I on South Street today? No. Certainly not.”

“Hmn. I see.” The Deputy Sherriff measured my mother’s eyes, which were glaringly bloodshot, probably from the melting mascara. She had not washed the theatrical white makeup off her face. In fact, she now looked a little like the Joker from Batman, except meaner. Judging by their befuddled expressions, it was rather apparent that the officers were mystified by her Gothic appearance.

“What would I be doing on South Street?”

“Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I‘m asking the questions.”

“I’m sorry. I apologize.”

“There‘s no need to apologize,” the Sheriff’s Deputy assured her. “What I’m doing right now is trying to determine whether or not you have an alibi. In a little while, Miss Hall, you‘ll also be visited by homicide detectives. Just letting you know. Okay? And even though we already have what, so far, we consider to be a credible witness; the Hampton Police Department is also urging anyone in the public with information regarding the hit-and-run to contact Crime Stoppers hotline.”

“Huh. Isn‘t that interesting.” Flustered, my mom ran the back of her sweaty hand across her forehead, now smudging the make up to the point where it almost became reminiscent of wet paint. It was still fairly humid out. Although at this waning juncture of the day, the setting sun, which sent tree-shaped shadows creeping across the lawn, resembled a dwindling ball of orange fire. Crickets, anticipating evening, had begun to chirp. “I don’t know anyone who lives on South Street.”

“No one at all?”

“No sir.” She shook her head, and forced herself to smile. “I’ve been home all day. I write greeting cards for a living. As a matter of fact, you police officers have probably bought a Hallmark card that I had written the verse for, and gave it to either your wives or girlfriends for their birthdays. Or maybe for Christmas.”

The cops all gazed at one another, dumbfounded. I got the distinct impression that they doubted my mom made a living writing greeting cards.

“We might have bought one,” the Deputy Sheriff utters matter-of-factly. “You never know. Anything is possible.”

“All right,” my mother adds, pretending to laugh. “I’ll admit some of my verses appear in cards that you can find at the Dollar store. I don’t exclusively write for Hallmark. Although I wish I did, there would be a lot more money in it for me. You know bigger royalty checks.” Undoubtedly, this was her way of trying to get on the cop’s good side, by employing a smidgen of humor to the discussion.

But it did not work. The officers wanted answers regarding the hit and run. They did not come here to chitchat about holiday or special occasion cards.

“So Miss hall, you’re claiming that haven’t left your house at all today? Is that correct?”

“That‘s right, officer.” Nervously she used a match to put flame to a cigarette. Then, while guiding a loose lock of hair away from her eyes, she took a long pull off the Salem Light, and then indifferently exhaled a stream of menthol-scented smoke up toward the eave. “I had planned to go food shopping earlier, to get a few things, like laundry detergent, orange juice, and possibly some frozen pizza for dinner. Except I never got around to it.”

“That a fact?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It is a fact?”

“That your son, ma‘am?” The Deputy Sheriff aimed his thumb in my direction.

“Yes it is.”

“What’s the boy’s name, if you don‘t mind me asking?”

“Billy.”

“Hi there.” The officer carrying out the interrogation bent down and courteously shook my hand. He had a firm, clammy grip. “How you doing, sport?”

“I’m fine,” I whispered, shaking all over. Due to the severe degree of paranoia I felt, I nearly swallowed my Adam’s apple. Gulp!

“So sport, is it true, that you and your mother here weren’t out driving today?” Why did he have to bring me into this? The Sheriff’s Deputy could not get the grownup to spill the beans, so he decides to go to the kid. It seemed like a cheap tactic.

That’s when I glanced up at my mom, frightened beyond belief, because I did not know how I should respond to the officer’s inquiry. But she was no longer there. Yet again, my mom had vanished and the bad lady had assumed her identity, as if Mary Kate felt that she needed to be the one to deal with the authorities.

“We didn’t go anywhere today,” the bad lady said to me. “Isn’t that right, Billy?” She continued to smoke the cigarette.

The cops stared at me, intently awaiting my reply.

“No,” I at last speak up. “Me and my mom didn’t drive around today at all.”

“Are you sure about that, sport?”

I nodded. “Uh huh.”

“Tell the nice officer what we did today, Billy.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tell him about how we had lunch in the backyard, at the picnic table.”

“We did, mister, we had roast beef sandwiches and soda.”

“And what time was that?” The cop doing the questioning quickly swung his attention back to the bad lady.

Her eyes now appeared wraithlike. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, checking her Timex digital watch. “I’d say in between two and four o’clock.”

“Two and four o’clock. Okay.” The Deputy Sheriff, stepped down off shady the porch, and then walked over to the driveway.

“This your car?” he asks, pointing to the Toyota Corolla.

“Yes, it is officer.”

“Front-end looks pretty banged up,” another cop says, while bending down near the bumper. “She definitely hit something. There’s quite a dent here.”

Another officer marched over. “Wait Mitch. Looks like there’s some blood splattered on the bumper as well.”

“Oh. That,” the bad lady says indifferently. She also strolled over to the car. “That’s nothing. I hit an animal yesterday. A deer.”

It did not take being a genius to know that the Sheriff’s Deputy clearly did not buy that. “A deer you say, eh?”

“Yes.”

“And where did you hit a deer, m‘am?”

“On Route 64. It came running out of the woods and before I had time to slam on the breaks, I wound up hitting the poor thing. Listen officers, I realize I probably should have reported the incident, but I don’t know, I guess I wasn’t thinking. I never hit an animal before. So I really wasn’t sure what to do.”

The Deputy turned toward me. “Is that true son, you and your mother struck a deer yesterday?”

I froze, not sure what to say.

“Billy wasn’t there,” Mary Kate promptly intervened.

Surprisingly the Deputy Sheriff did not solicit where I was. The cops, I believe, had already made up their minds that my mother was guilty. A dented bumper with blood on it, an eyewitness description of the car and her license plate number, with the witness having observed me in the backseat.

How could they not think my mom was guilty?

Although it seemed that, before the cops would slap the cuffs on her, they had to continue to go through this nerve-racking formality of asking her certain questions until they determined, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was the person that they were looking for.

Just then, the Good Humor truck, with its hypnotic carnival music jingling, came around the block and started to drive down the street, headed toward the house. (I know. I could not believe it either. It was like seeing a mirage.)

Right away, Mary Kate spotted the white, box-shaped vehicle, as did the cops. The officers seemed to fall into a state of awe, as if they had suddenly been put under the influence of a powerful sorcerer’s spell.

For about ten second, as the Good Humor truck gradually approached, with someone merrily shouting the cheerful words ‘ice cream’, none of the Hampton, Ohio cops could either speak or look away. The whole situation, to me, seemed to take place in slow motion. I could not speak or look away either.

“God understands why I must do away with that sleaze,” the bad lady utters cryptically, in a haunting voice. “He has no room in heaven for scum like Nancy Sutcliffe. And I won’t allow that woman near my child again.”

“Pardon me, ma’am?” the Deputy Sheriff asks.

“Yeah,” one of the other puzzled cops follows up. “What did she just say?”

“I said that God has spoken.”

“God has what?”

“Never mind. You pigs are in my way.” All of a sudden, Mary Kate, with a head full of steam, lunged at the unsuspecting Deputy Sheriff and somehow managed to snatch his service revolver from his holster.

Then, howling like a psycho, she ran toward the road and began to open fire on the windshield of the Good Humor truck, peppering it with a raging flurry of artillery. The sporadic gunshots sounded like the Fourth of July, like firecrackers exploding.

“What the-” one of the cops squeals, tongue-tied.

“How dare you molest my only child!” the bad lady shouted irately at the Good Humor truck. “I thought I killed you, whore!” She fired another blast. The bullet bounced off the steel vehicle, causing the projectile to ricochet. “Nancy Sutcliffe, may your soul burn in hell forever, sinner . . . Die pedophile. Die!”

With their weapons drawn, the alarmed police officers, now crouched down on their knees, immediately took position behind their patrol cars.

Overwhelmed by the gunshots, the Good Humor truck crashed awkwardly into a telephone pole. Once the square-shaped vehicle had come to a screeching halt, with a somewhat substantial amount of black smoke rising from the smashed front end, I saw someone slumped over the steering wheel- a heavy-set man with glasses.

My mom‘s alter ego, Mary Kate, with the service revolver held at her side, rushed over to finish the job. There was no doubt in my mind that she planned to put a slug in the ice cream truck driver’s head.

Then the unthinkable happened, one of the cops screamed as loud as he possibly could, “Stop it! Stop! Put the gun down!” When the bad lady did not obey the command, the officer shot her, pointblank, in the back. My mom collapsed in the street, face down. Not far from the ice cream truck.

Shocked, I instinctively ran to her side, rolled her over, and then held her. I held my mom, thinking that if she died, I would have no one. She had been the only family I had ever known. I had never known my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. If my mother died, there would be no one left to care for me. And that frightened me. That scared me more than I can possibly explain.