"You, you again… Why do you have to go sticking your nose in other people's business? Look how much damage you've done to this town-" Those were the last words of my father a couple of years ago when he was murdered by a miner who strolled into town and took over. I'm sorry, I guess I forgot to properly introduce myself- I'm Lorie Whiter, and this is my story.
It all began in a very small town where I grew up, Indian Creek, Arizona. Ever since I was born, miners have come into town more times than I've watched the Wild, Wild West. An old western movie that never gets old, contradicting.
"Come here, Lorie! A package just came in for you," overwhelmingly exclaimed my mother, who struggles to get by, still, even after Dad past away. We live in a small country house with a little white fence all the way around the property.
With our horse, Buck, neighing and kicking (which is why Buck is
a proper name), I know it's not a normal package. The more I
focused in on the package, held it, felt it, I got an idea of
what it might be.
"Run!" I screamed as I threw it as far off in the woods as I could, away from our house, or anyone else's. I grasped my mother's arm, most likely leaving a bruise, and bolted for the back door. We threw ourselves away from the house, riveting, clawing our way to try to get to a safe zone. Then, it went off.
After a long time in the hospital with my mother by my side, my
hearing distorted, and mostly unable to pen my eyes because all I
saw were blurry figures moving all around us, changing IVs, and
asking us how we felt. Naturally, I started to compose a theory
as to who did it. Having my knowing, and curious, state of mind,
I already came up with the person who made the gadget that,
apparently, threw us against our fence, leaving us cold, hard and
unconscious. As we lay there in our hospital beds, our vision
comes again so slowly that it's as if it takes years to heal and
be fully restored. After my vision is normal again, I look at my
mother's legs, and it's a very unpromising site.
"She's going to have to have them amputated-" says nurse Cateline, which I know by her voice. "I'm so sorry." she repeated. She exploded into tears; something I thought I'd be doing right about now.
"No," "There's no reason for you to be." I was cut off by my own mind swelling with worry and doubt. Then, after a little while of sorrowing the worst of this situation, I joined in her pity.
Sometime after the homemade bomb went off, we returned to a massacre of rubbish that used to be our home. After our time spent sobbing together is up, an agent, Agent Luke of the town's police department, comes over to express his grief, and to question us to see if the bomb was from a certain miner that had a pretty sketchy criminal record of making coal bombs. His name, Kevin Hyde.
While I was in the deep process of thought, the Detective
"Excuse me, do you mind if we ask you a few questions?" My mom cut in when I was about to say, "No, we don't mind- because grieving over our lost everything is an automatic pass to but in?" But Mom beat me to the chase and said,
"No, it's fine." I shot the detective a glare.
"Thank you," he said simply.
At the Indian Creek Police Department, or the I.C.P.D, we were
tenderly asked to report to the interrogation room for
questions intended to make us break down. Great, I
thought. Never before have I been to the police department,
but I know some friends who have. And I guess I don't have the
best of friends, because it's never for good reasons. A new
detective strolled into the room, weary about what he might find.
I recognized him, and I got a very unsettling feeling.
"Hello, Richard," my mother said puzzled.
"Hello, Reginah," Detective Richard implied, maybe somewhat shocked by the coincidence. "Who are you here to see? Is it Detective Powell? Is Lorie in trouble? I'm here to see two bomb survivors. Oh…" He sounded so clueless, and really, an undeniable case of worry traced in his voice too.
"Yes, that's us, Richard," my mother said in a tone of comfort that made me itch.
"Oh, well, I'm very sorry for your loss-" That was the first voice I've heard that was truly sincere, which shocked me. "Is there anything we can do to help?" The Detective continues, "Money? Home service? A Replacement Plan?"
"No, we're fine-" I tried to say, but then my mother took it back and said,
"Actually, that Replacement Plan would be nice, thank you."
After the questioning ends, we go to the bank, Fairwell Indian Creek Local.
"I'll wait in the car," I said maybe a little too frantic for the occasion.
"Okay-" Her voice was cut off by the car door slamming shut. Trying to gather more information about the bomb expert while the cops aren't doing anything except playing solitaire and eating doughnuts, I tried to come up with SOME other explanation to WHO did this! And why? Revenge? Or is it just a sinister evil? Then I got a very sneaking suspicion- It could have been Richard Cynne, but my mom used to date him. Then, she let him go. I stopped trudging on, feeling the rush of a nerve that should have been buried forever come back. I dropped to my knees, the pebbles in the concrete making indentions in my skin.
"What do you mean you don't know? That money that you don't have was a ransom for your husband and little girl's father's life! Now he's as good as gone! Dead." Then, he shot my father in cold blood. Now, I knew where he was, who he was, and that the police actually did have the right suspect. And now he was going to pay for all the things he's done to this whole-hearted town and family. Finally, he's going to be doomed.
The next day, while balling until my pillow had a squishy sound to it, I realized what I had to do. I was going to go up against him in trial. But that would be risky since I'd only been in law enforcement classes for a couple of weeks. I have to hire an attorney. So, that's exactly what I did, and the outcome couldn't have been better except for me killing him myself. He ended up with a life sentence in a mental facility for men in Georgia with no possibility for parole. I almost got my happy ending. Finally. I took a deep, refreshing breath, and got myself able to relax and hang out with my friends like a normal person. I moved out when I was 19, and got an apartment across the street. My mother and I visit the grave site every Sunday and Wednesday. I force myself to forget of the past and move on, until one Sunday morning before visiting the grave site, got a call.
"This isn't over, Lorie Whiter. You better watch your back from now on when things start... changing." And that's when I snapped back into reality and realized that this really isn't over, and that the worst has yet to pass.