But something didn’t sit right with her about him. He must be involved in this in some way. She sat outside the cabin waiting for anything which could offer her a lead. She longed for parabolic microphones so she could hear the dialogue inside the cabin, if only to hear the word Lincoln.
Vanessa had arrived prepared tonight. She’d changed into a black jumpsuit and a grey hat covered her flaming hair. In the passenger seat were bottles of water and snacks. She was determined to last for the long haul if it meant finding something on these reprobates. There was something satisfying about the possibility of Thomas Jackson’s involvement; she could already taste the succulent pleasure of informing Darnell that his own son was caught up in the downfall of his hero.
As she shook herself out of her biased motives to find dirt on her suspect, the cabin door opened and Thomas Jackson stepped out alone. He lifted out his bike from the back of the shack and began to glide down the street. Slowly and discreetly, Vanessa began to follow the boy.
*
Across town, Darnell followed up on his own suspect. He sat in a Starbucks nearby Springfield University, and stared at the entrance of a red-brick townhouse, which had been converted to apartments to provide homes for the growing number of students in the town since the university’s reputation had grown to international acclaim.
He read over the file of Poppy Shipman. The arrest for breach of the peace was certainly juicy, but not enough to question her for the disappearance of a presidential body. Her damage to college property was damning when it came to the vandalism charge he was now seeking for the images which had sprouted across the Lincoln sites, especially when her known artistic work was political in nature. However he only had knowledge of this from her classmate. No charges had been brought against her besides a slap on the wrist from her tutor. It wouldn’t meet with the satisfaction of his boss, that’s for sure.
Within his pack, he’d found a little extra information on her which he’d pulled together himself; her Facebook profile. Vanessa would be impressed with his technical ability, well she would if they were indeed speaking. No doubt she’d overlook his knowledge of social media and instead point out that he was bordering on stalking a potentially innocent person, just because she happened to have the audacity to call his hero gay. As if their research on Lincoln hadn’t pulled up far worse claims in the previous days.
Poppy’s profile was just as Darnell anticipated. Post after post of anarchist forums and political debate. The Iraq War, the 2008 financial crisis and a mass shooting in Connecticut all had one thing to blame: the penis. Men’s genitals were the sole factor in the world’s issues. They either didn’t know how to use them properly or were a little underwhelmed with its size, so they used weapons, power and money to hide their insecurities. This was all according to Little Miss Shipman’s latest status update. Darnell chuckled at her claims, shaking his head before glancing up towards the entrance of the apartment. The door opened for a third time but she was nowhere to be seen.
He tried to find Vanessa’s profile but she was smart enough to either not have one or use another identity on there. He considered how he’d treated her in the last few hours. Had he gone too far? He regretted his temper, but she’d really got to him. Not just for the language she used but her accusations towards his ability to be a good dad. Sure, he struggled with his son’s sexuality, but this was less about his own bigotry and more about the protection of his boy. Aaron Jackson was already a minority without having his sexuality adding to his woes. He’d delivered enough bad news to parents of black teenagers alone without having the added chances of being attacked for holding another dude’s hand too. Lincoln might have freed the slaves and Martin Luther King might have achieved civil rights, but racism still festered within the streets he tried to secure and it was lingering within the force he worked for too.
It wasn’t just Vanessa’s review of his parenting which got to him. She’d also left a scathing evaluation of his marriage. She was right too. He would’ve have probably gone through with it, at least he would’ve done had he not had that damn bag on his stomach. He wouldn’t have even had to think about it. She was beautiful. And Jasmine, well she wasn’t the active animal she used to be in the bedroom. Those days died the day their second son was born, without the decaying libido which his colostomy bag brought him. He couldn’t help it, he just didn’t feel sexy with that thing. He’d been offered opportunities to visit support groups but the last thing he wanted was to discuss his sex life with strangers; he could hardly discuss it with his own wife.
Considering the family which he’d increasingly let down, he called it a night on his pursuit of Poppy and drove home. As he pulled up at his house, he recognised a green Ford convertible parked outside.
‘What is Vanessa up to?’ Darnell whispered. ‘Maybe she came to apologise.’
He had to admit to himself that he had overreacted. Vanessa wasn’t racist. And he’d said some hurtful things too. The week’s revelations about both of his sons and his hero were causing so much chaos in his head that his ability to think rationally and maintain control of his emotions had been thrown off.
He pulled up behind her car. The engine of the
