 CHAPTER 6 (section 4) copyright © 2001, S. Y. Affolee Detective Martinez had double checked the address that Thomson had scribbled down for them. “Yep,” he said over the phone. “The house on Yared Drive is still owned by one Sherman Johnson. He’s probably still living there if he hasn’t just bought another house in the next town just for the heck of it and moved down there.” Adrian ended up driving there, but there were no wisecracks about his driving skills from Simone. Not one word. He kept glancing at his partner, expecting any moment that she would keel over, passed out like an overdosed junkie, but she sat there beside him, lucid eyed and calmly watching the scenery that probably whizzed by a little too fast. The sky was on the edge of late afternoon, verging on the darkness of night. But it was also a bit cloudy so there was no romantic sunset to watch going down in a neon salmon sighted glory. The clouds themselves were pale gray blue threads that criss-crossed the sky in a gossamer web. Everything was tinged in a slightly gray color like those old sixties home footage that people’s grandparents were fond of showing over and over again in family reunions. Except, of course, those staticy lines and blobs that occassionally marred the picture. Yared Drive was in one of the places in northern Elanne where everything seemed out of the way, out in the middle of nowhere. Besides the squat two story houses that seemed to have come straight out of a seventies retro magazine, there were vast open spaces, most of it the greenish-yellow of summer dried grass, although in the distance, one could spot the black shadows of thin woodland. But these vast open spaces echoed of farmland. On the other side of the road, a metal railing was erected. From there, the land cut off vertically a ways, sort of like a mini cliff before plunging into a stygian blue of lake water. It was called Willow Lake even though all the trees surrounding its parameter were either oaks, maples, or pines. There was a small bit of land in the middle though which were populated by a few scraggly willows, but it was deserted. No one went out there unless they had a boat and decided to go for a picnic with some unwelcome fire ants. How the fire ants got on the island, nobody knew. The road ran straight forward, following the curves of the lake until a more hilly area loomed up and the road split into two. The road that ran up the hill and disappeared into a hedge of trees had changed its name to Westwood Road whereas Yared Drive still circled the lake. From there, the road ran in a continuous circle, never ending. Sherman Johnson’s house was a mile from the intersection of Westwood Road, sitting between two other unremarkable houses and itself, offering no other distinction besides its ugly grim trim and the mailbox that attempted a poor parody of a chicken. Adrian parked his truck behind a battered blue station wagon and the both of them got out. Simone got to ring the door. An older black man answered, his hair a brilliant white, scattered every which way like a wild wig. The creases on his forehead and his droopy sad eyes made him look like Einstien’s twin. He wore a gray sweater. Before they could even say hello, he said, “I don’t want any magazines. And I already go to church regularly, thank you very much. I don’t want to be converted to Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons or whatnot. And I don’t want a vacuum cleaner. Already got one.” Adrian cleared his throat. “We’re not travelling salesmen. We should have called, but we thought it would be better to come here straight away.” The old man narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? What do you want?” “We’re Dubois and Sung,” said Simone digging out a business card to hand to him. “We’re looking for Sherman Johnson who may help us on a case.” He examined the card briefly and handed it back to her. “Private investigators, eh? Well, well. I knew people of your sort would be coming by sooner or later. What’s next, the police?” “This is not some sort of prank,” said Adrian. “Of course not.” The old man raised a hand, indicating that they go inside. “I’m Sherman Johnson. Take a seat in the living room. I’ll answer whatever questions I can, just to get you out of my hair.” The living room itself looked like it went through several time warps as well as one or two trans-dimensional cataclysms. The room was painted in a drab beige. Several masks hung on the far wall, all strangely carved grotesque things that could have been African or voodoo in origin. A triangular cabinet graced a corner, itself battered and etched with words, some English, some foriegn. The floor was paved with random sized pine planks, but the throw rug on top was anything but the requisite oriental. It was clashing green and gray plaid. The couches were straight from some overwrought Victorian drama. An ottoman stood in the center of the room, but was slightly offset by a bright white ultra modern coffee table. But the doorway was a canister holding medieval weaponry and beside it stood a fake gold statue of a Bhudda. “This goes beyond no taste,” Simone muttered under her breath as she gingerly sat on one of the couches. “I’d say.” Johnson arrived back, a tray of food in his hands. He placed it on the table. Simone eyed it suspiciously and kept her hands resolutely in her lap. Behind Johnson, a large man trailed behind. He was a bit overweight and bald. But his origins could not be determined. His skin was a mottled coffee color, but his lips thin. His eyebrows were also shaved. But then again, it looked like he lacked the ability to grow any hair. He was wearing a long dark blue gown covered in small silver stars and he carried a cane in front of him. He looked a bit odd, until they realized that the man had no eyes. “This is Donald, my cousin,” Johnson explained. “I hope you don’t mind him being here for it all. We hardly have company and well, I think it’ll be nice for him to listen to other people besides me.” “Hello Donald,” said Adrian. But Johnson’s cousin didn’t reply. He just turned his head toward the new voice and grinned. Adrian felt Simone shiver beside him. Donald’s mouth was filled with sharp silver teeth. |