“Where are you, Ruth Ann?” Robert Earl said. “You ready?”
“I’m right here behind you and I’m ready.”
“Naw! You trying to be slick. Shirley said at the same time.”
“Okayokay. Let my hand go! You don’t have to hold my hand.”
“I can hold your hand if you holding my overalls.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
Shirley said, “Y’all damn lucky I don’t have a real gun.”
Just then a voice outside called, “Ruth Ann?”
“I changed my mind,” Robert Earl said, and closed the door.
Chapter 36
“GERD, what we call it,” Doctor Cobb said over the phone. “Otherwise known as gastroesophageal reflux disease. Basically, it’s the recurrent regurgitation of food and acid from the stomach into the esophagus.”
“Yeah,” Sheriff Bledsoe said. “It hurts like the dickens, too. Doc, I need something for this. I’m dying over here. Pain in my stomach, back, chest, neck, throat.”
“Mr. Bledsoe, if you’re in pain I strongly suggest you go to the hospital. Laymen often mistake angina for GERD.”
“Doc, I just got back from the hospital. They determined I wasn’t having a heart attack and sent me on my way, still hurting. No prescription, no have-a-good-day. Nothing! Look, Doc, all I need is the purple pill, the one on the commercial.”
“Nexium esomeprazole, one of several proton inhibitors.”
“Yeah, exactly, on the tip of my tongue. If you could write me a prescription, I think it’ll do the trick.”
“Over-the-counter products, Mr. Bledsoe, are also effective reducing acid production in the stomach. Tagamet HB, Zantac 75, Pepsid AC. If one of those doesn’t work come see me Monday morning. Good-bye, Mr. Bledsoe.”
“Wait, wait, wait! Doc, I tried all those. In fact I mixed up a batch of stuff this morning—didn’t work. I know it’s Sunday and I shouldn’t have called your house. I’m in pain here!”
“All right, Mr. Bledsoe, I’ll give you a prescription. I shouldn’t do this without first examining you. If it doesn’t alleviate your discomfort come see me in the morning.”
“Doc, I can’t thank you enough. How do I get to your house? I’m on my way.”
“Hold your horses, Mr. Bledsoe. I’ll call Tim Hudson at the Wal-Mart pharmacy. He’ll fix you up. You may need to hurry, he closes at seven.”
Sheriff Bledsoe thanked him ten times, hung up the phone and looked at his watch. A quarter till seven. He didn’t need to hurry; Wal-Mart was a five-minute drive away. He got into the cruiser and just as he was reaching to turn off the dual band radio, it called his name.
“Ennis? You there, Ennis? Pick up.”
He stared at the radio as if it were a bomb. He wasn’t aware his eyes filled with tears.
“Ennis? Pick up if you’re there.”
He grabbed the mike, put it to his mouth, put it down and picked it up again. “Ennis, here,” he said, voice cracking.
The city of Dawson couldn’t afford its own dispatcher, so Tracy Walls, the dispatcher in Ashley County, provided the service for a nominal fee. She rarely radioed Sheriff Bledsoe except in emergencies.
From his stomach came a loud rumbling noise, similar to stampeding cattle. Excruciating pain would soon follow. He leaned to his right and massaged his chest, a futile attempt to head off the oncoming agony.
“Ennis, a man just called, said there’s a family disturbance next door. Shots fired. A shotgun, he said. Ten- Fifteen Dixie Drive. You want me to call the state police for backup?”
After the pain subsided a bit, he sat up and stared out the window, up at the sky, wondering if he had somehow been cursed. Maybe his misery was for the time he posted his ex-wife’s boyfriend’s car as a stolen vehicle.
“No,” he said into the mike. “Ten-four, I’m on it. I’ll let you know if I need backup.”
On average there were two or three shootings a year in Dawson. Just his luck, a few minutes from the purple pill, which he was certain would end his misery, a dang shooting occurred. It was enough to make a man swear.
Ten minutes later he knocked on a door and a man appeared in a side window and said, “Next door.”
He crossed the yard to where Walter and Colleen Riley were standing on the porch. “How you doing, Walter?” Neighbors were looking on.
“Not good,” Walter said.
“What’s going on? I heard someone out here shooting.”
“I was.”
“What for?” looking for a weapon.
“A pervert broke into our home,” Colleen said. She wore a blue uniform, a Hillard Catfish Farm patch on the right arm. “We almost got him.”
“How you know he was a pervert?”
She and Walter exchanged looks. “We know,” she said.
“Why don’t we go into the house and discuss this,” and saw the shotgun propped behind a plastic lawn chair on the porch. “Bring it in with you, Walter.”
“We can’t get in, Sheriff,” Colleen said.
“Why not? He’s not inside, is he?”
“No,” Walter said. “Our daughter pushed something against the door and locked us out.”
“Why she do that?”
“I don’t know. She needs her ass whooped, for one thing.”
Sheriff Bledsoe knocked on the door. “How old is she?”
“Twenty-one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Linda.”
“Linda, this is Sheriff Bledsoe. Open the door, sweetheart.” He waited. “Linda, if you don’t open the door, I’ll have to break it down. You don’t want me to break your parent’s door, do you?”
He heard something scrape across the floor and then the door opened. One look at her and another herd stampeded inside his stomach.
“I’ma beat your ass!” Walter said to Linda. “When I start working on your ass, I’m beating you for old and new. Mostly new!”
“Hold the threats, Walter,” Sheriff Bledsoe said. “C’mon, let’s go inside and figure out what’s going on here.”
“Ain’t no threat,” Walter said, staring at his daughter.
Inside, after Walter put the shotgun behind the door, Sheriff Bledsoe requested everyone take a seat. Colleen and Walter sat on the couch while Linda remained standing. Sheriff Bledsoe said, “Did someone break into your house?”
“Yes,” Colleen and Walter said.
“No, he didn’t!” Linda said. “I let him in. He didn’t break in. I let him in. We didn’t do nothing.”
“Dammit!” Walter shouted. “Go to your room!”
“Wait a minute, Walter,” Sheriff Bledsoe said. “Let her talk.” To Linda: “Who did you let in?”
She looked at her father and stuck her thumb into her mouth. “Erbic.”
“Who?”
She took her thumb out. “Eric.”
“What’s his last name?”
