Chapter 1-Accident
(First Chapter of Snow Blind)
T his was a test. It had to be a test. There was no way on God's pretty planet that the next six days of her life weren't some forms of a test of endurance or mental capability to not fall off the sanity wagon. She had driven the three hours and forty-six minutes from Plainfield, Indiana to Antioch, Illinois to begin her training with Passion Fruit the Accidents Specialist. A weekend off to spend with her main squeeze, The Mustang was just the umph she needed to clear her mind in preparation to cleverly learn how to stage accidents. Helen McDaniel, codename, The Cranberry was on the third leg of a hairy dog of training to become a Technician. As an on-boarding member of the Great Lakes Crew of Forbidden Fruits, her training thus far, comprised spending three months with each member of the crew.
In August, she spent a really weird ten days with The Bad Apple to access her strengths and weakness. He cut the training time short after she shut down three warehouses of weirdness with kids. As a reward, The Cranberry earned a two-week break, which she spent in Oregon with her man before heading to Ohio to spend three months with Lemon to learn chemistry. In her opinion, the Bad Apple and Lemon needed to trade handles because that woman would test the patience of Job. They departed company as colleagues in mid-November and The Cranberry knew entirely too much about plants, toxins and quick ways to stop a heart from beating. Today, on the evening of Veteran's Day, she arrived in Illinois to a really strange text message.
“This is a test. It has to be some form of a test,” Helen said aloud as she arrived at the home of Passion Fruit. “What is that funky-ass smell?”
The instructions she'd received via text were very specific. There was a code for the gate. Do not stray from the drive path. Come to the rear of the home to park her vehicle. These steps she followed, arriving at the rear of the home to spot a sight she wasn't prepared to see.
“This is a test,” she said aloud, exiting the vehicle with her purse dangling from her wrist. Helen dropped the key inside the purse walking up to where Passion Fruit stood over a body. A body that was immobile, laying on an old Army green woolen blanket. “This is a test.”
“Stop standing there gawking and get over here and help me,” Passion Fruit said.
Helen didn't ask questions. She dropped the handbag in a pile of dirt and ran over. She was told to grab his feet and on the count of three lifted a very heavy man onto a gurney. It had to be a test. Why would she arrive at someone's home to help them move a body? An alive body? Or was it no longer alive?
They hoisted the body onto the gurney, and with one lift of her foot, the transport table rose. Passion Fruit yelled at Helen, “Push!”
Helen obeyed pushing the man on the hospital table into the home. A loud moan eked from his lips leaving Helen to sigh in relief at the answer to her question on the man.
“Okay, he's alive,” Helen said.
“Not for long if we don't get a move on,” Passion Fruit told her. “Remove the boots and start cutting off the pants. There's a bullet in him and we need to find it and plug the hole, then cauterize the wound.”
Helen reached into her pocket, pulling out her favorite knife. The boots, she unlaced and pulled off his feet, noticing the immediate ballooning inside of the socks. Her blade sliced through the fabric of the khakis, spotting the compound fracture of his leg.
“Compound fracture, right fibula,” she noted cutting away the fabric. She moved up the man’s legs, cutting away the material. “Dislocated knee, contusions on the right quad, left quad, broken skin on left thigh.”
Helen undid the belt. Gently, she pulled it open, cutting the fabric to expose boxer briefs, black, and damp. There was no blood on the legs except for the wounds. She continued up the torso while Passion Fruit started a fire in the enormous fireplace. The shirt came off, and a dark wound jumped out at Helen from his belly.
“There are internal injuries,” she called back, cutting away the shirt. In his left shoulder, she located the hole. “Bullet wound, upper left shoulder.”
Blood pumped out, slowly. She feared his heart rate was slowing down or either his body was running out of red juice and the man would be dehydrated dead from lack of blood. Her hand slid under his back, feeling.
Helen called out, “It is not a through and through, the bullet is still inside of him!”
It was then she made it to his face. She screamed in horror at what she saw. “Dear God where is his face?”
A flap of what used to be the man's face hung to the side like chicken skin removed from a thigh before baking. Helen tried not to gag. “This is a stupid test. I think I quit.”
“You can't quit,” Passion Fruit said coming up beside her and passing her a pair of nitrile gloves. “If we quit, he dies.”
“Is this one of your accidents gone wrong?”
“My accidents don't go wrong,” Passion Fruit said. “We need to get the bullet out, run a line of at least two pints of O-neg, which is in that small fridge in the mudroom. Grab those please.”
Helen didn't question, but mumbled under her breath, “of course she has a mini blood blank, the bitch has a gurney! I am failing this test. I am so failing this test.”
“Stop talking to yourself and bring me the blood,” she said.
Helen returned with the two packs of life juice, passing them to Passion Fruit, who shook her head no. She explained as she used a slotted cannula to poke around in the hole in the man's left shoulder, digging around to locate the source of the blood loss.
“Can't you like use a magnet or something to attract it instead of digging in the man like that?”
“Bullets aren't ferromagnetic, and are lead covered in copper,” Passion Fruit said, locating the bullet. She pulled it out and laid it on his stomach. “Grab me that poker in the fireplace.”
Helen did as she asked, bringing back the poker, thinking she wasn't going to stick that hot metal into that... “Son of a bitch! I'm going to pass out! Jesus, hold my hand!”
The smell of the burning flesh made Helen woozy as she held on to the edge of the gurney, trying desperately to not drop to the floor. Passion Fruit ignored her, opening a kit with needles and plastic tubing. The IV gurney pole popped up as she hung the bag of blood. A needle went into the man's arm as the blood began to drip in.
Next, she moved on to his face. A bottle of liquid was spritzed over the man's exposed dermis and Passion Fruit, gently lifted the flap of skin, pulling it over the unprotected flesh. She worked to pull the loose skin of the scraped-up nose. A medical stapler materialized in Passion Fruit's hand, and with precision, she stapled the man's face back into place.
“Eww, maybe you should leave it off and wait for it to grow back,” Helen said holding her stomach.
“Skin doesn't grow back Cranberry,” she corrected. “His dermal layer is still intact, which may allow this to heal correctly, but he's not going to look the same. It is going to be a gamble on whether this will heal or rot away, but I will do my best.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was shot Cranberry.”
“I can see that,” Helen said. “The removal of the skin on his face, the bruises and contusions say so much more.”
“I need you to say so much less while I work,” Passion Fruit said. “In the mudroom is casting material and my first aid kit, please bring it.”
“Sure,” Helen replied, wondering why the woman didn't have her get it the first time she went into the mudroom. She returned to find the bone had been popped into the place. Passion Fruit removed bone fragments from the open wound cleaning it with items from the first aid kit. A stockinette was placed over the leg, followed by padding.
Helen stood by watching as a solution was made for the cast and placed over the leg. Her eyes drifted up the body and in this state the man would need help to get to the bathroom or through life. She stayed quiet watching her new mentor work. The cast was in place like a professional doctor, Helen worried about what was next.
Passion Fruit changed her gloves, washed her hands. When Helen looked around, the man's boxer briefs were down and his junk was in the woman's hands.
“Dear God I have died and ended up in hell,” Helen said.
“He needs a catheter until he is mobile,” Passion Fruit said.
“Of course, you just happen to have all of this on hand,” Helen said.
“I am a medical doctor,” Passion Fruit replied, “I simply prefer animals to people Cranberry.”
She changed out the bag of blood, providing the second one to the man on the table, then she rolled him into the living room in front of the fire. Betadine got smeared over the cuts and abrasions, and bandages where necessary. A quilt was placed over him along with bandages over this face giving him a mummy like appearance.
“You didn't check his back for wounds,” Helen said.
“Right now, we simply need him to be out of the woods,” passion Fruit replied.
“What if the woods come to you?”
“Huh?”
“Whoever shot this man is going to look for proof of death,” Helen told her. “The injuries suggest a fall from a high place, with a rough landing that ripped off his fucking face. The person who shot this dude will look for him.”
“I left no traces,” Passion Fruit said, “Plus where he landed, would be hard to climb down to, let alone...never mind. I'm tired.”
“Should I even ask why you were where this poor man landed,” Helen said, looking about the home. It left a lot to be desired and most of the furniture appeared to be shared by an animal of some size.
Before Helen could ask about the resident of the large bed by the fire, Passion Fruit opened the side door, allowing in a black dog larger than the woman. Helen stood still staring at the beast wondering why her life had taken such an odd turn or if the monster would go for her throat.
“Candy, this is Cranberry, please say hello,” Passion Fruit said to the dog.
To her surprise, the animal walked to Helen and offered a massive paw. Helen accepted, shaking the beast's offered greeting. The dog remained in front of her, staring, as if it were waiting for something. Finally satisfied, Candy walked away.
Helen asked, “What is that and what just happened?”
“She is a Cane Corso, and she simply did an assessment of you as a person,” Passion Fruit said watching the dog sniff at the man. A small growl came from the throat of the beast, followed by a whimper. “Yeah girl, I know. He is in for a rough couple of days.”
“He's not the only one,” Helen said, again looking about the house. “I guess I need to get settled in, and my belly is empty.”
“Yeah, we'll do a clean-up of the kitchen, bleach everything down, and make supper,” Passion Fruit said watching the man.
The day was too weird to even begin to explain. Passion Fruit arrived in the area to set up shop to stage an accident for one Elliot Parker. It wasn't in the brief what he'd done to warrant an untimely accidental death, and it wasn't in her wheelhouse to ask, but simply do. The set up never happened as the man on the gurney screamed out, and came tumbling over the rock face, hitting jagged rock edges on his way down. The scrub of shrubs at ground level cushioned his blow a bit, but the drop below ended in a black hole. The hole is why Passion Fruit was certain the shooter of this man wouldn't go any further looking for him.
She knew this, because the accidental death of Elliot Parker was to be the same fate, which is why she was on the lower ledge of the cliff facing. This had to be called in, but she wouldn't mention the man in her home. Helen, in the kitchen going through his pants, noticed there was no wallet. As a matter of fact, there was no coat and it was November in Illinois.
“No wallet, but also no coat,” Helen said. “Was he camping and his personal effects are still at the top of wherever he fell?”
“All those are good questions and very valid observations,” Passion Fruit commented, absently petting the dog, but watching the labored breathing of the man on the gurney. A wayward thought crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. “I can't go back to the scene or I'd risk exposing myself.”
“The better reasoning to play with is why risk exposing yourself by bringing home someone else's problem, issue, or intended failure to end this man's existence,” Helen replied. “Yes, it is in our nature to care, but we are the guardians of women and children, not men.”
“Without men, Cranberry, there will be no women and children,” she replied. “Your room will be the first one on the left down the hall. The bathroom in the hallway is for you. I have my own. I don't eat pork, mainly fish and fowl. I don't eat beef.”
Helen said nothing. She worked on cleaning up the discarded material from the mystery man. The materials were carried outside to a burn barrel where she tossed them in per instructions and started a quick fire with lighter fluid and matches ridding the evidence of the man in the other room. From her car she took out her suitcase along with the computer bag. There were cards inside from the boys and a few from the girls at Lemon's house. This Technician had no wards, but a very large dog and a man on a gurney. She picked up her purse, returning to the home and finding her room.
A boring room with a twin sized bed, a quilt, and a single pillow. The desk in the corner looked as if it came straight from the side of the road, and the chair's tufting looked as if Candy used it as a chew toy. She sighed softly, waiting for guidance on what she could bring to the world of Passion Fruit. A bigger concerned raised on what she would leave the world of Passion Fruit carrying because the woman seemed darker than the other Technicians. The demon riding her soul hadn't been vanquished. It was still with her.
“Jesus, I hope you behind the fence,” she whispered as she began to unpack to settle into her room for the next three months. “I have no idea what I am in store for with this woman.”
****
L ASHONDA TEMPLE BECAME the accidents specialists for the Technicians, well, by accident. An accident she staged for her biological father didn't go as planned, but based on who the man was, it out her on the radar of a few people who were in need of her special skills, not the ones yet to be fully actualized, but the ones she was trained to do. Lashonda Kelani Temple was a licensed and trained medical doctor. A passionate woman about healthcare and women's rights, she also found a passion for treating animals.
However, it came about in a slow fashion by way of her mother. Bertie Temple, a Nicaraguan national, made the way to the US via a Coyote who sold her to a man who needed a housekeeper. A man, who seemed nice enough to start and gave Bertie her own quarters in his home with his wife and three children. The first night he snuck into her quarters, he was gentle with her, only asking the minimal to get him through a dry spell. The dry spells became more frequent, and the hand polishing jobs became more. Eventually, without proper care, and precaution, the man became to notice the fullness in Bertie's breasts.
The fondness he had for the woman led him to placing her in a nice apartment with the understanding there would be only him. He even attended the birth of his child, whom he named Lashonda after his favorite dancer in a nightclub he owned in Chicago. The man remained active in Lashonda's life, bringing presents, attending recitals, and when she graduated from high school, her father gave her a compact car to start college.
The pride he felt when Lashonda got into medical school made him cry. His pride also led him to pay for an apartment and all of her textbooks during her training. This act, in itself, indebted Lashonda. Therefore, in her third year of medical school, with the bare minimal of training, she received a call from her father to come to his club. A dancer required medical treatment.
The woman, in poor shape, Lashonda asked no questions, because her father stood over her shoulder watching the care she provided to his new favorite dancer. Every weekend, it appeared her father had a new favorite dancer in his nightclub. Every weekend a new favorite dancer needed medical care for wounds, she began to realize, were inflicted by her father, or the men who frequented his establishment.
The fourth year of medical school, the weekend trips to his club changed to weekend at specialized locations where immigrants were being trafficked into the country and needed care. She didn't agree with what her father was doing and refused to aid him any longer, especially when she began to see the similarities between the immigrant women and the ones she'd been treating at his club. Lashonda spoke up.
“I don't know why you're trying to act so damned surprised,” the man said. “I picked your mother out of one of these line ups and made her my housekeeper. You are who you are because of me, so don't try to act like you are better than any of these people. Help them, like I helped you.”
Lashonda couldn't wait to speak with her mother to see if the man was lying. Her heart broke when she learned he was telling the truth. She asked her mother why she never saw her with any men, thinking her mother was simply a pious woman, who loved only her father.
Curiosity made her follow the man from his club one Friday to the home in Lincoln Park near Chicago. A home with a wife, three children and fancy cars. A Hispanic woman greeted him at the door to take his briefcase while his wife meets him with loving arms. She sat in the compact car fuming as the kids showered him with affection, and the son, waved farewell as he climbed into a shiny BMW.
It was then, she began to hate the man. Several times she attempted to stage accidents to take him out of play, and each time she failed. In the actions, with each failure, she learned more, got better, and the last time she nearly succeeded, but a man intervened. He stopped her and shifted the focus.
“You need to finish medical school,” the stranger told her. “Your country needs that anger, and we have a home for it.”
“He's a terrible person who does terrible things,” Lashonda said.
“If you take him out, he will be replaced with someone who does much worse,” the stranger said. “He is a controlled menace. If we know where he is and what he's doing, we can keep watch.”
“This isn't France! Who is this we you keep referring to, and that man needs to stop existing in this world!” She yelled through tears.
“If he didn't exist, there would be no you,” the stranger replied. “You have many years to go in your training. Don't get sidetracked. Let me help you.”
“Michael Kurtzwilde needs to die,” Lashonda said, “what kind of man sends his daughter to medical school so she can take care of the people he traffics and puts to work in his nightclubs and brothels? I hate his fucking guts!”
“Each of us has a purpose,” the stranger said. “You are learning yours. Allow me to guide you. I will handle Kurtzwilde and get you into a residency away from his reach. Will you let me do that?”
“I have to look out for my mother,” she said through sniffles.
“Where you go, we shall send her as well,” the stranger said. “Will you let me help you find a home for your anger?”
Lashonda agreed. The next seven years she became a doctor to a group of people who seemed deadly and came with gunshot wounds, or worse. The stranger called them Technicians. She also became a Technician, serving as a medical doctor who didn't like practicing medicine, and moved away from the public to a small place in Antioch, Illinois.
Her mother, who passed right after she began her internship, left Lashonda adrift with no anchor other than the handsome stranger. He aided her in staying affixed and assigned her to a woman named Azreal who became her handler. She still had yet to make any friends. She treated and streeted the people sent to her for care, taking more time to aid in nursing wounded animals, and setting traps for larger ones,
This was her life. This was her passion. This, was the fruits of her labor. Fifteen years later, she emerged a hardened shell and an accidents specialist who also served as a medical doctor for the Forbidden Fruits of the Great Lakes. Her handle was Passion Fruit.