Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (18 page)

M
onday evening Clay
pulled into East Memphis Arkansas after the eight hour drive from
Tony’s farm. Even as far south as Memphis, early spring was cold
and damp. The sun was setting and it was getting dark before he
found a suitable motel. After checking in and getting settled in
the drab room, he left to find a place to eat supper. Time to
sample the famous Memphis bar-b-que he’d heard about.

Finding a small bar and grill near Beale
street, he sat down for supper and a couple of beers. A lone
musician was picking a guitar and singing crying in your beer
music. He relaxed and anticipated tasting the ribs he had ordered.
The bar was a hole in the wall and didn’t draw many patrons on a
week night, but was probably crowded on Friday and Saturday. The
tables and chairs were scratched and well worn. The cheap plastic
coverings on the booth seats had splits and tears patched with duct
tape. The woman behind the bar was an older hard featured woman
with bleached blonde hair contrasting sharply with the dark roots
showing near her skull. She wore a low cut bright red blouse
stretched tight to keep her ample breasts constrained. After his
second beer Clay felt like he would loose his appetite if she kept
giving him the “come and get me” grin she kept flashing at him
through dirty teeth surrounded by bright red lipstick. The skinny
girl waiting on his table appeared to be about college age, shy,
and too immature to be working in a rough joint. While finishing
the ribs and potato salad, he located the street of the target’s
home address on a city map the motel clerk had provided.

After leaving the bar he drove out to
Cooter's neighborhood. The house, a small four room shiplap sided
frame with peeling white paint, belonged to his mother. License
plates on a green 1962 Pontiac four door sedan parked on the street
matched the information provided by his patron.

Tuesday through Friday Clay followed his
target who seldom left the house before noon. Most days after
lunch, Cooter went to a park to walk and jog for about an hour. On
Thursday the temperature had warmed to near seventy and several
women had brought their young children to the park to play in the
sun. Cooter found a bench where he sat and watched the young kids
playing for over an hour. Each day he would leave the park and stop
at a coffee shop for donuts and coffee. He’d then drive to a nearby
shopping mall and find a spot inside where he could sit on a bench
and watch the customers. He showed special interest to the ones
with young children in tow.

Clay had started out wearing a sweat suit on
Tuesday and by Friday felt the routine at the park might be one he
could use. Also, he needed the cover of jogging around Cooter’s
neighborhood instead of sitting in his car day after day where he
was sure to be noticed. It would be ironic if he were mistaken for
a cop on surveillance. On one of his jogs past the house, while he
was on the other side of the street, Cooter came out onto the porch
with an old woman. Clay learned from the loud conversation the
woman was Cooter’s mother. She looked frail and appeared to be in
her late seventies. She was pushing a small two wheeled cart, and
as he learned later when she returned, had walked the two blocks to
a small neighborhood corner grocery store. He had shortened his
surveillance of the house so he was arriving in the neighborhood
just before eleven in the morning, and then following his prey when
Cooter left for the park.

On Saturday, after jogging in the park and
stopping for coffee and a donut, Cooter again found a bench in the
mall on the first floor where he could watch people. The
temperature continued to be warm and the mall was full of kids
tired of being forced to stay inside their homes because of the
cold dreary weather. Clay had taken up a position on the second
floor and behind his prey. He bought a cup of coffee and sat at a
small round table near a railing where he could observe the man
without being noticed. A young boy about seven or eight years old,
obviously left on his own by his guardian, was exploring the mall
on his own.

Cooter watched intently as the boy wandered
over toward the bench where he was sitting. When the boy was within
talking distance Cooter started a conversation, enticing the chubby
young boy closer, until he had taken a seat beside the older man.
The two of them talked for close tot ten minutes and then stood up.
Clay watched as they left the bench and both began walking toward
the exit where Cooter had parked his car earlier.

Clay made a quick decision, knowing he could
not allow the young boy to leave with the old pervert, even if he
blew his cover while stopping them. Taking the stairs two and three
at a time he quickly reached the first level and jogged through the
crowd to catch up with the pair just before they reached the exit
doors.

Clay said loudly and sharply, “Sir” more of
an authoritative command than a greeting. “I’m Sam Johnson, with
mall security. I have a report of a missing boy who fits this
child’s description. What’s your name son?”

The youngster replied “Josh Morgan, sir.”

“Well Josh, a relative has reported you as
lost, and is waiting at the Security Office for you. If you’ll come
with me I’ll take you there.”

“This is my new friend Howie. He said he
would take me to where my mom parked our car, and she might be
there waiting for me.”

“Well, it was kind of him to offer to help,
but I’ll take you to where she’s waiting. Come along now.” Clay
took the boy’s hand and turned and began to walk away while the boy
waved and said “Good bye, Howie.”

During all of this Cooter Holland had
remained silent. He breathed a sigh of relief as the “guard”
escorted the child away. “God Damn cops”, he muttered to himself as
he pushed the exit door open and hurried to his car.

Clay escorted the boy back into the main mall
until he saw a real security guard in the distance. Squatting down
to the boy’s level he pointed to the guard and instructed the boy
to go to the guard and tell him he was lost and wanted to find his
mother. As the boy ran off in the direction of the guard, Clay made
his way back to the exit doors where he could see Cooter backing
the Pontiac out of the parking slot. Now he felt a new urgency to
complete his work before Harold Holland completed his.

There was no need to follow Cooter any more
for the remainder of the weekend. Clay thought he knew enough about
the man’s routine to move forward. A plan of attack needed to be
developed quickly to put an end to the man’s perverse desires.

Clay drove out to the park where he had been
jogging all week to make another circuit on the jogging trails,
running the same route his prey had consistently followed. He was
looking for blind spots on the trail where he and Cooter would be
out of the sight of others. He also looked for areas off the trail
where the brush was thick enough to conceal a body, at least long
enough for him to make his escape. Most of the trees and bushes
were deciduous and had lost their leaves for the winter. However,
several areas were planted with pine trees and cedar shrubs and
could provide the needed cover.

After breakfast on Sunday morning he made
another trip to the park to check his initial observations and
finalize the details of his developing plan. Leaving the park, he
drove back to his motel to change out of the jogging suit into a
shirt, slacks and jacket. His next stop was two blocks from the
Memphis bus station where he parked his car at a mini mall, and
walked to the station carrying a small overnight bag. The departure
schedule showed a bus would travel south into Mississippi, making
stops at many small towns and medium sized cities. It was scheduled
to leave in twenty minutes. After paying cash for a ticket he
boarded the bus and settled in to read the Sunday paper he had
purchased outside the bus station. Three hours into the ride the
bus pulled into a town which appeared larger than most of the
others they had traveled through. Clay left the bus, exited the
station and found himself on a four lane street in the business
section of the city. One lone taxi cab was parked at the curb down
the street from the bus station entrance. The cabby dropped him off
at a motel matching his requirements; near a decent restaurant and
within walking distance of the town’s only shopping mall. The time
was approaching five o’clock as he walked through the front
entrance of the motel, picked up a map of the city and asked for
directions. Having gotten everything he needed there, he walked out
one of the side exits and made his way to a locally owned
restaurant for supper.

By the time he had finished his third cup of
coffee after dinner, the temperature had dropped ten degrees and
the darkness of early winter had descended on the small southern
city. Clay paid his dinner check and walked the block and a half to
the nearby shopping mall parking lot. On a Sunday evening there
were less than a hundred cars on the lot. The lack of customers
made it easier to see where the mall employee’s cars were grouped
in sections farthest away from the mall entrance. Glancing around
the area Clay looked for police cars, mall security and cameras
mounted on the light poles. Not seeing anything to alarm him, he
selected a four door Oldsmobile 88 sedan. The car was a common
model in a popular shade of dark red, he judged it was about four
or five years old. While walking to the car he removed a pair of
brown jersey gloves from his pocket and put them on. Opening the
overnight bag, he removed a long slender piece of metal flat bar,
slipped it between the driver's window glass and the rubber seal
and lifted the door latch knob. After looking around again, he sat
in the driver’s seat, took another tool from the bag and removed
the ignition lock from the steering column. Connecting the wires
together and starting the engine was a simple task. When he was off
the parking lot he followed the directions given to him earlier at
the motel, to the cities largest hospital. Visiting hours were
still in effect, and the visitor’s parking lots were full. He found
a spot in the back of one of the lots and backed into a dimly
lighted spot between two other cars. Removing a stolen set of
Indiana license plates and multi tip screwdriver from the bag he
changed both plates. Now he was ready for the drive back to
Memphis.

Monday morning he drove to a side street on
Harold Holland’s usual route to the park instead of following him
from the house. The sky was overcast and the temperature had
dropped into the upper forties. He was apprehensive as to whether
Cooter would come out in the damp dreary weather, or choose instead
to lie at home on the couch. He sat in the stolen car drinking
strong but barely warm coffee. Finally, Cooter drove past and he
pulled out behind him, thankful Cooter was a creature of habit.

At the park Cooter went to his usual parking
spot. Only two other cars were parked in the lot for the running
trail. Over at the approach path to the trail he began stretching
exercises while walking down the black topped path.

Clay had worn a sweat suit that Cooter hadn’t
seen him in previously, with the hood up to cover his head. He was
again wearing the brown cloth gloves. A .38 caliber Smith and
Wesson Model 52 automatic with a silencer attached was on the left
inside his sweat jacket secured with Velcro. The brass knuckle was
in his left jacket pocket. The victim began to quicken his pace,
walking briskly into a lightly wooded section of the trail. Clay
finished his leg stretching exercises as Cooter disappeared around
the first turn. Checking the parking lot, he noted no one had
arrived since he had parked. He started a slow jog behind Cooter
holding his head down to avoid showing his full facial features to
passersby. The two joggers neared a section more densely wooded,
where the trail had large rises and dips. Ahead of them, a woman
jogger approached from the other direction. She had passed by the
first jogger, and as she neared Clay he turned his face down and
away from her, focusing his eyes on the ground to his right as he
continued his pursuit. Cooter Holland was still jogging slowly, as
if he were struggling to maintain the effort to continue his
exercise. When the joggers reached a point almost half way into the
denser section of the woods, a light mist of rain began to fall.
Clay quickened his pace and closed the fifteen yards between them
with little effort. Cooter had increase his sped to a fast jog.
Clay was timing his approach to match their arrival at the top of a
rise where the trail turned to the left. After glancing behind and
not seeing another runner, he decided to execute the plan. Starting
a faster run he was within ten feet of his victim within seconds
and had to slow down to adjust his timing.

Hearing someone approaching, Cooter glanced
over his left shoulder and hugged the right side of the trail,
giving the person behind him ample room to pass.

As Cooter entered the left turn, Clay looked
ahead as far as he could see and closed the final distance. Just
before a break in the cedar bushes lining the right side of the
trail he came up behind and to the left of the lead man. His left
hand, clutching the brass knuckle firmly in its palm came out of
the pocket, swung in a fast arc, and landed at the side of Cooter’s
head in the left temple area.

Cooter had begun to turn his head to the
left, being curious as to why the person behind him was not
passing. The runner he heard was obviously faster than he was, so
what was taking so long? When the metal knuckle connected with the
older man’s head, he staggered and nearly fell.

While pushing Cooter toward the space between
the bushes Clay got his feet tangled with the injured man, fell
through the space and rolled ten feet down the gentle embankment
with his victim. Both men ended up below the trail between the
branches of mature pine trees and cedar bushes.