Book 3: Dobie’s Dilemma

Episode 6

© by William Arthur Holmes

Cori

Cori was on the couch, barely noticing me, scrolling through her phone when I first explained the situation. I remained standing and told her all about my visit down south, excluding Darla. She gasped at one point, but said nothing.

After I finished, she gave me a long look followed by a deep sigh. She looked down at the floor, then up to the ceiling. Anywhere but directly at me.

I followed her eyes up to the popcorn ceiling and down at the cheap carpet. “Yeah, it sucks,” I began, “but...”

“We’re sick of each other, anyway, Dobie,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “This is our excuse to finally end it.”

I couldn’t believe it. I knew our marriage was not what it used to be, but this was a shock.

“There should be a life insurance payout,” she ignored me, “to convince everyone you’re really dead. I can finally redo the kitchen! There will be a payout, right?”

I didn’t know, didn’t answer, just shook my head and left the room. She was enjoying this way too much.

“How did you supposedly die?” she called out, now in the kitchen.

“Stabbed through the heart by my wife!” I shouted on my way out the front door, slamming it behind me. I’m not normally so dramatic, and she’s not normally such a bitch, but that was the conversation.

I then sneaked back inside and grabbed my handgun from the nightstand by the bed. For one, I didn’t want her to find it; secondly, I might need it where I was going. I wrapped it up in a sweatshirt to hide it from the marshals.

Rather than go back and ask Cori if she wanted to join me – I didn’t want her to, but had to ask – I texted, telling her about the motel, saying it might be wise to get away from the house for a few days.

She said, “No thanks, but you go ahead,” which is what I did, after texting her and the marshals the name of the place. And, now I wished I hadn’t told Cori anything.

Calista texted back – though we could see each other through our car windows – saying they would check up on me later. I didn’t know if that meant tonight, tomorrow, or at my funeral with flowers. Hopefully yellow roses. Those are my favorite.

~ ~ ~

It was a scary, cheap motel, but I wasn’t sure where my next paycheck was coming from and didn’t want to spend any more than I had to. If I had known at the time that the US Marshals Service would be picking up the tab, I would have found something much nicer.

As it was, my room on the second floor overlooked the Interstate. Not the best neighborhood.

Darla eventually returned my call and agreed to meet me there. A couple hours later, she knocked and I opened the door. Entering the room, she gasped, “Let me in and close the door!”

I laughed and let her in. She had brought a bottle of pink lemonade. Only in the South would someone do that.

“There were men staring at me!” she said.

“You should be used to that by now.”

She liked that, but I told myself to stop. In my mind, I was just being charming – aren’t we supposed to be charming? – but she took it seriously.

She said she was there to check up on me, see if I wanted to get into WitPro.

“Not especially, but might have to.”

“That’s what I thought, and I’m working on it, but no luck so far. In the meantime,” she held up the bottle of lemonade, “I brought refreshments. I hope you have glasses. I was thirsty but on a bit of a health kick lately. Besides, I need to keep a clear head. I might have to do something drastic to get you into WitPro.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know but, whatever it is, it’s best you don’t know. Plausible deniability, and all that.”

“A woman after my own heart!” I let slip, then downshifted to a more casual tone and said, “My favorite thing.”

~ ~ ~

Cori decided to meet me there, after all. Of course. She found me alone in a motel room with another woman. Of course. I don’t know how she got my room number. I’d only mentioned the name of the place.

It didn’t help that as soon as I opened the door for her, behind me Darla had kicked off her shoes and was taking off her blouse.

Cori jumped to predictable conclusions, and it didn’t matter how many times I said “It’s not what you think.”

“I’m sorry,” Darla offered. “I spilled lemonade on my blouse and need to wash it in the sink before it stains.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Cori was sarcastic.

From the bathroom, Darla called out, “Hey, Dobie, you got a shirt I can borrow while my blouse dries?”

My wife raised her eyebrows. “Well? Do you?”

“Um, yeah, sure.” I opened my suitcase, pulled out the Sissy’s t-shirt I’d just bought, and handed it to her, averting my eyes as I did so.

Cori and Darla both laughed at that, but for very different reasons.

Returning from the bathroom wearing my t-shirt, Darla tried to play peacemaker. She served Cori a cup of lemonade.

“We couldn’t find any real glasses,” I explained when Cori gave me a look. She knocked it back in one gulp and I, stupidly, made light of the situation. “Thirsty, I guess,” I said. But, as usual lately, humor was not my friend. Maybe it never was. I don’t know.

Cori tossed the empty cup in the direction of the trash can, missed it completely, scoffed, and said to Darla, “You can have him!”

We heard a roar go up outside as Cori stepped out onto the balcony. The same men ogling Darla on the way in had now set their sights on Cori.

After an awkward moment of silence – in memory of my now dead marriage, perhaps – I sat on the edge of the bed.

Darla sat next to me – right up against me – and lay her head on my shoulder. I tried to picture Cori smiling, but couldn’t for the life of me remember the last time she had. Sarcastic/psychotic smiling like when she first heard about WitPro doesn’t count.

Darla began to rub my back. That turned into a hug, then a kiss, then tearing off each other’s clothes. And that’s how I crossed that bridge when I came to it.

Ruckus

An hour later, thinking I was asleep, Darla sneaked out. I could hear her on the phone with someone as she descended the stairs. The only word I caught after “hello” was “ruckus.” It stood out because I don’t often hear that word.

An hour after that, I was awakened by Calista and Brad banging on my door. It was late, but neighbors on all sides were still partying hard. I’d had quite a day and was trying to sleep.

The marshals’ banging shut my neighbors up. I’ll have to remember to bang on my own door, shouting “US Marshals! Open up!” next time I have noisy neighbors.

I pulled on my jeans, grabbed the gun off the nightstand, and looked through the peep hole. Brad had gotten a buzz cut since just a few hours ago, and Calista had her thick brown curls pulled back tight.

When I opened the door – gun in hand but pointed downward – they drew their weapons and told me to drop mine.

“Oh, sorry,” I said and handed it to Brad.

“Don’t ever have a gun in your hand,” he scolded, “when you open the door to a US Marshal!”

“Yeah, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t open the door at all,” Calista added, “without seeing their credentials. Impersonating law enforcement is a common trick.”

“I doubt I could tell the difference between real and fake credentials, especially through the peephole. Besides, I saw you just a few hours ago.”

They ignored this. Brad was focused on securing my gun, checking its safety. He eventually stuck it in his back waistband.

Watching him, I said, “You shaved your head. Is this your on-a-new-case look?” He glared and I apologized, “Just kidding, but what can I do for y’all this fine evening?”

“We got a call,” Calista began, “telling us to get over here as quick as possible. A concerned citizen said a ‘crazy person’ was in the parking lot, causing a ruckus.”

“A ruckus, you say?” I’ve been working on my poker face lately, and think I kept it inscrutable. “And you assumed it was me? No, I haven’t caused a ruckus in years. I was in here trying to sleep.”

I never mentioned Darla.

“We monitor first-responder activity,” Brad chimed in, “anywhere near our potential witnesses. We knew you were in the area, so they sent us to check it out. Anyway, we found your car in the parking lot.”

“Saw someone running from it,” Calista added. “Wanna know what we found?” I nodded. “A tracker under the wheel well and a bomb in the trunk...”

“It doesn’t have a trunk,” I said. “It’s an SUV. You sure you checked the right car?”

“The back section, then. Whatever you wanna call it, you woulda been blown to Kingdom Come. The bomb squad is on their way now to deal with it.”

“Just call Cori and have her defuse it,” I joked. When nobody laughed, I explained, “That was probably her... earlier... running away.”

“Never good when you have to explain your jokes,” Brad scoffed. “But you would have had to leave your car behind when we put you in WitPro, anyway.”

“Are you serious? That’s my getaway car! It’s even called an Escape.”

“We’re US Marshals,” Brad dead-panned. “We’re always serious.”

“Remember Griffin and Tim?” Calista asked.

“I heard about Griffin, yeah. How’s Tim doing?”

“He’s dead, too,” Brad said. “Someone overdosed their IVs at the hospital, and we have to assume you’re next on their list.” With a wry smile, he added, “That might not be such a bad thing, but it’s our job to keep you alive.”

Calista shot him a dirty look and pulled me fully inside the room, out of earshot. “I recognized the tracker as one of our own,” she whispered. “Probably planted at our office here or in Chattanooga.”

I wondered if Darla had anything to do with it, then remembered the homeless man in the Chattanooga parking lot and mentioned him.

She nodded. “We think the bomb was added later. Probably here in the parking lot. Someone in the Marshals Service must have leaked that tracker’s info to the bomber.”

When I glanced at Brad, she took my hand and said, “He can be an ass, but he’s one of the good guys, I promise you.”

“Why are we whispering, then?”

She had no answer. Letting go of my hand and looking down, she smirked and said, “You might want to zip up your pants before we go.”

I looked down. Good thing nothing was sticking out. Smiling as I zipped up, I asked, “Was it good for you, too?”

She ignored that.

Seeing Calista moving back in his direction, Brad moved in closer to the door but out of her way. He must have seen that my fly was down but didn’t bother to tell me.

“I don’t see us becoming true friends,” I said to him. “A bro tells a bro when his fly is down.”

“I might’ve said something, bro,” he ran his hand across the crown of his head, “but you made fun of my hair.”

“My bad,” I apologized. To Calista, I said, “I thought I’d try one more time to talk Cori into coming with me. We’re not each other’s favorite person right now, but I owe her that much after all this time.”

“That is so sweet!” She took my hand again.

“Clean break, man,” Brad shook his head. “Clean break.”

Calista took those words as her cue to release her grip on me.

“You ever been married?” I asked Brad, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing about marriage – or women – is clean and simple.”

“Don’t tell me about women,” he shot back. “You might have 20 years on me, but I can tell you a thing or two about the ladies.”

“Twenty years? More like ten...”

“You look a lot older...”

“When you two,” Calista mediated, “Mr. Different-Girl-Every-Week and Mr. Soon-To-Be-Divorced have finished pretending you know anything at all about women, we need to leave.”

To me, she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I deserved it,” I shrugged. “I can be an ass, too. Just ask my soon-to-be-ex wife.”