FICTION
Sins Of The Past Part 6
A Sunny Alexander-Johnson and Henry James Series By P.G. & Sharon Barnett
My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson. And I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
It was too late in the day to attempt locating the office of Dr. Abraham Hickom. Going on the assumption cosmetic surgery is most often elective, it wouldn’t be like the good doctor’s offices were open twenty-four seven. After grabbing a quick bite to eat, we went back to the motel and turned in, agreeing to meet Thursday morning in the lobby around seven.
It was almost like old times us being on the road again. The problem was, it wasn’t. Both of us were married now and preferred the comfort of returning to our own homes, our partners, and for one of us, our children. Needless to say, but we’re going to anyway, being separated from our families certainly didn’t help our moods.
Something else that didn’t help our moods was being tossed about like a puppy’s chew toy by the Fixer.
Sitting in the tiny lobby of the motel trying to make the best of the motel’s scaled-down version of a continental breakfast, we silently sipped our coffee and tea, trying our best to wake up.
“I got a call from the Fixer this morning.”
“So did I, Henry. What time was yours?”
“About three. You?”
“Three-thirty.”
We said the name of the doctor simultaneously.
“Doctor Hickom.”
“My guess is the Fixer already knew who it was, but wanted to make sure we’re on the right track.”
“Yeah, but what’s this shit about the code?”
“Oh, he told you that as well?”
“Yeah, princess, he did. And it don’t make a lick of sense to me.”
“Hang on; I wrote it down.”
“So did I.”
“That’s surpri…”
“It’s too damned early in the morning for you to start that shit, Shaundrika. Just read it.”
“Fine. 19,6,496,4,6 — Don’t just look for the gold, look into it.”
“Like I said. Don’t make sense.”
“It’s got to mean something, Henry.”
“No shit Sunny. And as usual, the Fixer, instead of just coming out and telling us what the hell is going on, gives us nothing but mysterious bullshit. It’s like it’s one big assed game of Clue.”
“Yeah, and this time I don’t think the butler did it.”
“I’m too tired to laugh.”
“You ready?”
“Lead the way, my Nubian queen.”
In a small town of around twenty thousand people, it didn’t take us very long to find the offices of Advanced Elective Cosmetic Surgeries And Dermatology. It was nestled in the corner of a large industrial complex strip mall in an upscale part of town. After parking in front of the office, we sat in the car, finally spying a smartly dressed young woman who stepped up to the front doors, unlocked them, and stepped inside.
A few moments later, fluorescent lamps in the ceiling of the offices flickered into life. We waited a few more minutes, watching as two men and another woman entered the offices, then we got out and went inside.
The entirety of the inside certainly had a doctor’s office feel and look. Several plush chairs sat throughout the waiting area. Three large-screen televisions were flickering news and sports. One side of the waiting area was a half stone wall, the rest of the wall glass to the ceiling, with a series of stations complete with sliding windows. At one of the stations sat the woman we’d seen opening up the place, and we walked up and tapped the glass to get her attention. The woman flashed us a huge smile, then reached up and pulled the sliding window open.
“Good morning. Who are you here to see?”
“Well, we’d like to schedule an appointment to see Dr. Hickom.”
It was as if we’d suddenly slapped the woman across the face. Her smile instantly vanished, and she dropped her head and stared at the desk in front of her for several seconds. When she looked at us again, her expression seemed anguished, a sorrow-filled, almost tortured look.
With a brief swipe of her fingers against both eyes, she finally said, “I sorry, but, well, Dr. Hickom was killed in his home.”
Stunned, we stared at the woman. It was clear to see she was suffering from the loss of the doctor, someone she’d evidently been close to, but then she had no idea how this news was affecting us.
This situation had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Much worse.
“Uh Miss…”
“Judy.”
“Judy, when did this happen?”
“Monday. Dr. Hickom didn’t show up early like he always does. We waited until noon and called his house. When we didn’t get an answer, we called the police. They found him, found him dead. The police aren’t saying much, but you know, word get’s around.”
“Local smalltown grapevine?”
“Yes sir, something like that. I hear it was some kind of home invasion. They shot Doctor Hickom and then ransacked his house.”
“Thank you, Judy. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, ma’am. He was such a nice man. Who would want to kill him?”
“I know. It’s crazy. Henry, let’s go.”
After getting into the car, we sat, staring through the front windshield at the office of the late Dr. Hickom, idly noticing as people entered and exited.
“So, now what?”
“I’m guessing we try the police station.”
“Henry, what makes you think they’ll even talk to us?”
“You have a better idea?”
“Yes, and I think it’s right up your alley, old man.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“We go to Doctor Hickom’s house and well, let ourselves in.”
“You mean break into an active crime scene and start looking around ourselves? Shaundrika Alexander-Johnson I’m so proud of you. I never thought I’d see this day.”
“Why thank you. Besides. What’s the worse that could happen?”
“Uh, I think I understand now why you hate to hear me say that.”
“Ya think?”
Read On — Sins Of The Past Part 7
Let’s s keep in touch: P.G. & Sharon Barnett ([email protected]) © P.G. Barnett, 2020. All Rights Reserved.