Page 3 of Snow Blind
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PASSION FRUIT NEEDEDto go to the kitchen to pull together some form of sustenance for her and Cranberry. The day had been too weird to even begin to explain. She was in the area to set up shop to stage an accident for one Elliot Parker. It wasn't in the brief what he'd done to warrant an untimely accidental death, and it wasn't in her wheelhouse to ask, but simply do. The setup never happened as the man who was now on the gurney had screamed out, and came tumbling over the rock face, hitting jagged rock edges on his way down. The scrub of shrubs at ground level cushioned his blow a bit, but the drop below ended in a black hole. The hole is why Passion Fruit was certain the man’s shooter wouldn't go any further looking for him.
She knew this because Elliot Parker’s accidental death was to be the same fate, which is why she was on the lower ledge of the cliff facing. This had to be called in, but she wouldn't mention the man in her home. Helen, in the kitchen going through the man’s pants, noticed there was no wallet. As a matter of fact, there was no coat, and it was November in Illinois.
"No wallet, but also no coat," Helen called out. "Was he camping and his personal effects are still at the top of wherever he fell?"
"All those are good questions and very valid observations," Passion Fruit commented, absently petting the dog while watching the labored breathing of the man on the gurney. A wayward thought crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. "I can't go back to the scene or I'd risk exposing myself."
"The better reasoning to play with is why risk exposing yourself by bringing home someone else's problem, issue, or intended failure to end this man's existence," Helen replied. "Yes, it is in our nature to care, but we are the guardians of women and children, not men."
"Without men, Cranberry, there will be no women and children," she replied. “Your room will be the first one on the left down the hall. The bathroom in the hallway is for you. I have my own. As far as meals, I don't eat beef, mainly fish and fowl, but I do like bacon.”
Helen said nothing. She worked on cleaning up the discarded material from the mystery man. The materials were carried outside to a burn barrel where she tossed them in per instructions and started a quick fire with lighter fluid and matches, ridding the evidence of the man in the other room. From her car, she took out her suitcase and computer bag. There were cards inside from the boys and a few from the girls at Lemon's house. This Technician had no wards, but a very large dog and a man on a gurney. She picked up her purse, returning to the home locating her room.
The room was boring with a twin sized bed, a crooked handmade quilt, and single pillow. The desk in the corner looked as if it had come straight from the side of the road, and the chair's tufting looked as if Candy had used it as a chew toy. She sighed softly, waiting for guidance on what she could bring to the world of Passion Fruit. A bigger concern became raised about what she would leave the world of Passion Fruit carrying because the woman seemed darker than the other Technicians. The demon riding her soul hadn't been vanquished. It was still within her.
"Jesus, be a fence," she whispered as she began to unpack to settle into her room for the next three months. "I have no idea what I am in store for with this woman."
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LASHONDA TEMPLE BECAMEthe accidents specialists for the Technicians, well, by accident. An accident she staged for her biological father didn't go as planned, but based on who the man was, it put her on the radar of a few people who needed her special skills, not the ones yet to be fully actualized, but the ones she was trained to do. Lashonda Kelani Temple was a licensed and trained medical doctor. A passionate woman about healthcare and women's rights, she had also found a passion for treating animals.
However, it came about in a slow fashion by way of her mother. Bertie Temple, a Nicaraguan national, had made her way to the US via a Coyote who sold her to a man who needed a housekeeper. Bertie Temple was the American name on the paperwork given to her by the man. The man seemed nice enough to start and gave Bertie her own quarters in his home with his wife and three children. The first night he had snuck into her quarters, he was gentle with her, only asking the minimal to get him through a dry spell. The dry spells became more frequent, and the hand polishing jobs turned into more. Eventually, without proper care and precaution, the man began to notice the fullness in Bertie's breasts.
The fondness he had for the woman led him to place her in a nice apartment with the understanding there would be no one but him. He even attended the birth of his child, whom he named Lashonda after his favorite dancer in a nightclub he owned in Chicago. The man remained active in Lashonda's life, bringing presents and attending recitals, and when she graduated from high school, her father gave her a compact car to start college.
The pride he felt when Lashonda got into medical school made him cry. His pride also led him to pay for an apartment and all of her textbooks during her training. This act, in itself, indebted Lashonda. During her third year of medical school, with the bare minimum of training, she received a call from her father to come to his club. A dancer required medical treatment.
The woman was in poor shape, and Lashonda asked no questions because her father stood over her shoulder watching the care she provided to his new favorite dancer. Every weekend, it appeared her father had a new favorite dancer in his nightclub. Every weekend, a new favorite dancer needed medical care for wounds that she began to realize were inflicted by her father or the men who frequented his establishment.
The fourth year of medical school, the weekend trips to his club changed to weekends at specialized locations where immigrants were being trafficked into the country and needed care. She didn't agree with what her father was doing and refused to aid him any longer, especially when she began to see the similarities between the immigrant women and the ones she'd been treating at his club. Lashonda spoke up.
"I don't know why you're trying to act so damned surprised," the man said. "I picked your mother out of one of these line ups and made her my housekeeper. You are who you are because of me, so don't try to act like you are better than any of these people. Help them like I helped you."
Lashonda couldn't wait to speak with her mother to verify if the man was lying. Her heart broke when she learned he was telling the truth. She asked her mother why she never saw her with any men, thinking her mother was simply a pious woman who loved only her father.
Curiosity made her follow the man from his club one Friday to the home in Lincoln Park near Chicago. He shared the home with his wife and three children who all drove fancy cars. A Hispanic woman greeted him at the door to take his briefcase while his wife met him with loving arms. Lashonda sat in the compact car fuming as the kids showered him with affection, and the son waved farewell as he climbed into a shiny BMW heading off into the night, more than likely, to ruin a young woman’s life.
It was then that she began to hate the man. Several times she attempted to stage accidents to take him out of play and each time she failed. With each failure, she learned more and got better, and the last time she nearly succeeded, but a different man intervened. This man stopped her and shifted the focus of her anger.
"You need to finish medical school," the stranger told her. "Your country needs that anger, and we have a home for it."
"He's a terrible person who does terrible things," Lashonda said.
"If you take him out, he will be replaced with someone who does much worse," the stranger said. "He is a controlled menace. If we know where he is and what he's doing, we can keep watch."
"This isn't France! Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to? That man needs to stop existing in this world!" she yelled through tears.
"If he didn't exist, there would be no you," the stranger said. "You have many years to go in your training. Don't get sidetracked. Let me help you."
"Michael Kurtzwilde needs to die," Lashonda said. "What kind of man sends his daughter to medical school so she can take care of the people he traffics and puts to work in his nightclubs and brothels? I hate his fucking guts!"
"Each of us has a purpose," the stranger said. "You are learning yours. Allow me to guide you. I will handle Kurtzwilde and get you into a residency away from his reach. Will you let me do that?"
"I have to look out for my mother," she said through sniffles.
"Where you go, we shall send her as well," the stranger said. "Will you let me help you find a home for your anger?"
