Dead Body On My Route Read online

Dead Body on my Route

  Stone Patrick

  Copyright 2014 by Stone Patrick

  I was not expecting to come across a dead body today.

  My name is Trent Bixby, and I work for the United States Post Office as a mail carrier. Some of my female colleagues prefer the term "postal worker," but no matter. I consider the work that I do six days of the week to be important. It doesn't bother me that it is one of the most maligned professions, behind lawyers and politicians. I love what I do. At least I did, until one summer morning, when I found one of my customers had passed on. Let me tell you what happened.

  My route is done mostly on foot. It is just more efficient that way, and the higher-ups think that we can better serve our customers, so I don't argue all that much. Plus, my wife thinks I look healthier from all the walking I do. "Trent, I'm going to have to take those pants in again if you keep losing more weight," she said last night. Puffed up my chest, yessiree.

  So, I'm walking down Maple Street, cutting across the lawns as I normally do and making good time, when I spotted Mrs. Neibauer's black poodle coming around the corner with an American Girl doll in its mouth. Mitsy sauntered up to me and dropped the doll at my feet, and then took off back where she came from. That was odd! She's never done that before. I stooped down to get the dirty doll, hiked up my mail bag that was slung over my left shoulder, and proceeded to follow the dog. As I rounded the corner, Mitsy was up ahead, waiting for me to catch up. Once she saw me, she continued past the blooming crepe myrtles and the partially opened fence door that led straight through to the flower garden at the back of the house.

  The air was still, but as I wandered down the dirt path, I caught a whiff of Hibiscus and marveled at the golden yellow Marigolds. Her choice of the Oklahoma Rose was brilliant. The Dianthus blooms created a dizzying array of patterns, and I saw a few remaining deadheads that Mrs. Neibauer must have missed the last time she was in the garden. Where is Mrs. Neibauer, anyway?

  As I searched for Mitsy, I heard the poodle whining and whimpering in the back corner of the wooden fence. She was digging up the soft earth with her front paws, and had made a considerable hole, so I hurried over.

  I rushed right into a wall of stench so strong I doubled over. I gagged and almost lost my sausage and egg breakfast. There was only one other place where I had smelled death that strong, back in Fallujah, Iraq when I did two tours as a grunt in the U.S. Army.

  The dog, seeing me turn away, nuzzled at me to help her dig, but I pushed her away. I needed to get help, even though I knew that there was no hope for Mrs. Neibauer. I slowly got to my feet, took several deep breaths through my mouth while plugging my nose, and retreated back to the safety of Maple Street.

  Even in my haste to leave that awful scene, I realized that I hadn't let go of the American Girl doll, so I looked at it closely. Except for a few small pieces of Bermuda grass on the backside of the long sleeve shirt, as well as a small wet spot on the torso -- most likely from Mitsy -- the doll was in very good shape. The light brown hair was combed to the side in a ponytail, with two pink terry hairbands. I recognized it as the McKenna doll, with the gray and white top and the purple pajama bottoms.

  I needed to call the police, but my cell phone was missing from my side holder. Reluctant to go in the back yard again, I hustled over next door and knocked on the door. A small girl, maybe 8 years old, opened the door.

  "Hey, sweetie, is your mo--" I froze when I realized that she was wearing the same outfit as the doll in my hand.

  She turned her head and called for her mom, and then, spotting her doll, she reached out her hand.

  "Um, is this your doll?" She nodded her head, and then looked straight at me, her arm still extended.

  I brushed the doll off with my hand, as if it had a lot more grass on it than it really did, and was just about to give it to her, when a thirty-something blonde woman rushed to the door. Seeing a stranger at her door, holding her daughter's American Girl doll, she let out a primal scream.

  Flinching, I tried soothing the mother, first by putting the doll on the porch, and then by holding up both of my hands.

  "I am not here to hurt you, or your daughter!" I backed away a few steps and dropped my gaze to the ground. I stumbled over a red wagon and almost fell down. Then the mother yelled "Get away from here! Shoo, shoo!"

  Meanwhile, the girl darted out of the door, grabbed the doll, and ran back. Her mother pulled her back inside and grabbed a baseball bat that happened to be lying on the porch. She pulled the bat over her shoulder and advanced slowly towards me.

  Suddenly, she froze, squinted her eyes at me, and asked, "Mr. Bixby? Is that you?"

  Heaving a sigh of relief, I said, "Yes, Mrs. Brown. It's me, the mailman."

  She lowered the bat and asked, "Why did you have Lucinda's doll?"

  "Mitsy gave it to me, er, dropped it in front of me."

  "How did Mitsy get it? Lucinda!" She turned and yelled for her daughter to come out.

  "Ma'am, I need to use your phone. I'm afraid that something terrible has happened to Mrs. Neibauer."

  "Mrs. Neibauer? I just saw her this morning. She invited Lucinda over to play as she had her granddaughter with her."

  "She has a granddaughter? I didn't know that."

  "Yeah, her name is, oh, what is her name? Lucinda, what is Mrs. Neibauer's granddaughter's name? You know, the one that you play with at her house."

  Lucinda peered behind her mother legs at me. She tilted her head at her mother and pursed her lips, "What do you mean? There's no girl there?"

  "Of course there is, honey. Mrs. Neibauer's granddaughter. What is her name?"

  "McKenna. But she's only in pictures, mama. McKenna's dead."

  My blood ran cold, and I locked eyes with Mrs. Brown. She hadn't quite figured it out, but when she did, her face turned ashen and her lips and chin started to tremble. She scrambled towards the house and I followed her in.

  She grabbed the wireless phone and with shaking fingers, dialed 911. She spoke with a shrill voice into the phone, gave her address, and told them to send the police right away. She swept her hand across her forehead and held Lucinda up against her leg.

  She hung up the phone and implored me with her eyes as to what we should do next.

  Just then, the phone rang. Mrs. Brown jumped at the sound, and then picked up the receiver. She stared at the name on the Caller ID and made a tiny whimper. "It's her! Mrs. Neibauer!"

  I grabbed the phone from her, took a couple of deep breaths to slow down my heart, and then answered the ringing.

  "Hello, Mr. Bixby. I see that you found McKenna."

  Knowing that I needed to stall for time, I said, "Hi, Mrs. Neibauer. How are you today?"

  "Never mind that, I want you to bring McKenna to me. She's mine, and I want her back."

  Deep breaths again. "Mrs. Neibauer, what is going on?"

  "I want you to bring McKenna to me. We are going on a long trip. I have already packed for the both of us."

  "Wh-where are you taking her?"

  "That is none of your concern, now, is it."

  Mrs. Brown was grabbing onto my arm as if to hold herself up from falling. "She is not taking my baby!" I shushed her to be quiet.

  "Mrs. Neibauer, why don't I come over and we can talk, OK?"

  "There's no need to come over." A chill ran up my spine. I jerked my head to the front window and saw Mrs. Neibauer standing on the lawn with a double barreled shotgun pointed right at us.

  A siren wailed in the distance, which caused her to turn. At that moment, I pushed Mrs. Brown and Lucinda down behind the couch. A shot shattered the front window, spraying glass and pellets onto the sofa and the floor.

  I dived to close the front door, bol
ting it shut. I flinched as the next shot shattered the panel above my head. The siren grew louder, and the shots kept coming. The door handle disintegrated next, so I stumbled over to a bookcase and pushed it to cover the gaping hole. I felt the whooshing of another shot over my left shoulder and I fell to the ground. Then there was only darkness.

  I dreamed of being on a beach, with my wife in her swimsuit beside me. She leaned over me, wiped my cheek with her soft hand, and kissed me with tenderness. I smiled, and kissed her back. "Are you thirsty?" she asked. I opened my eyes.

  Immediately, I felt the searing pain in my left arm and almost passed out again. I tried to focus the blurriness, and saw my wife standing over me, her eyes shiny and locked onto me. She let out a huge breath and started laughing and crying at the same time. I sank back into the softness and looked around.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Oh, Trent, you are a hero! You saved that little girl's life, and her mother's. If you hadn't shown up when you did, who knows what would have happened to the both of them."

  "Wh-what? Who's Lucinda? Where am I?"

  "It's OK, sweetie. It's going to be alright. You need to rest."

  "I don't want to rest, I'm fine!" I tried to get out of bed, but the pain washed over me, and I fell back down, breathing heavily.

  "Sweetie, you need to lie back down. I will tell you everything." She proceeded to tell me that the police arrived just before Mrs. Neibauer pushed her way into the Brown's house, and how she turned the shotgun on them, and how they were forced to take her down. She also told me that when the police went into Mrs. Neibauer's home, there were pictures of McKenna, who appeared to be her granddaughter, as well as packed suitcases in the hallway. But the most surprising thing was the body that was found buried in the back yard. It appeared to be that of an eight year old female. The autopsy report would find out what actually happened.

  "So, you are a hero!" she said. Funny, I didn't feel like a hero, but I guess I was one.

  I wondered what tomorrow will bring?

  * * * *

  If you like “Dead Body On My Route,” then check out my other titles found under Stone Patrick, which can be found here:

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  Email: taylor (dot) stonely (at) gmail (dot) com

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