The Whole Truth and Nothing But Bullshit
Beth was already taking Daryl's words to heart, as well as the very valuable lesson she'd learned the night before. If this situation necessitated use of her Gift like she thought it might, then she needed to start preparing. She needed to start asking those silent questions and readying her mind for whatever journey it may be taken on.
Preferably, it would be a quick journey. She had no desire to experience more pain that was not her own. So what questions did she need to ask in order to reach the only answers she needed?
How do you know Philip Blake? She began to think, picturing Judge Harrison with her blonde hair and her aquamarine eyes and her high cheekbones and her perfect, judge-like posture. What do you know about him? Why did you look so sick when you saw his picture? Why did you look so shocked when you found out what he's done?
Beth replayed Morgan's vague advice inside her head: "A blonde woman shedding light upon the correct path…"
Which path was correct? What kind of light would Judge Harrison shed, if any?
"Remember who you are, Beth Greene, and you will never be lost."
"Intent. Purpose. Control."
These thoughts ran through Beth's mind repeatedly.
When Andrea returned several minutes later, she didn't address the trio of expectant faces awaiting her. Instead, she waved down the waitress and ordered another beer and another tequila shot. Before the waitress left, Rick told her, "Put it all on my tab." Andrea offered him a brief glance of gratitude, but her face was still pale, and she appeared a bit shaky as she sat back down.
Daryl turned his head and shot Beth a brief look—which made her both relaxed and more nervous than ever. It seemed that, for the time being, their spat was forgotten. He was relying on her. And she knew she couldn't let him down.
Andrea sparked another match and slid the book towards the other end of the table before lighting the fresh cigarette between her lips. She shook out the flame and dropped the burnt match into the ashtray as she took a long drag of nicotine and tar. It escaped her mouth in a gray cloud. She pulled the cigarette away, keeping it pinched between her index and middle finger, and leaned forward, blue-green eyes locked on Rick. The photo was still lying on the table before her, but she was pointedly avoiding it.
"You're positive this is the man that killed Merle…?" It wasn't so much a question as it was an accusation. Her voice was still steady and confident, but there was an uncertainty behind it that hadn't been audible before. "This—this Philip Blake?"
Rick nodded. He remained cool and calm, his face practically void of emotion. Though there was a spark of empathy in his eyes. Or intrigue—Beth couldn't quite tell which. "Yes. I'd put my badge on it, Judge Harrison. That man helped murder Leanne Dixon, and decades later, he murdered her eldest son. And then he murdered a man named Jesse Pinkman. He's been to prison for attempted murder and insurance fraud, but he's not on parole anymore. No one's keepin' tabs on him. He's been coverin' his tracks fer thirty years, maybe more. Nobody knows he's out for blood. They don't know just how dangerous Philip Blake actually is."
Andrea shoved the photo back across the table to Rick, but he remained still as a statue. She wrapped a hand around the beer bottle before her and lifted it to her lips, swallowing hard. Her face was colorless and her eyes drifted downward, staring blankly at the bottle in her hand.
Beth could see Daryl straightening his back from the corner of her eye. They were all eagerly anticipating whatever the judge had to say next.
Andrea squared her shoulders and sat up a little straighter, though she kept her gaze averted towards the tabletop. "He told me his name was Brian—said he was from Alabama, visiting family in the city. He was really polite. Thoughtful. Courteous. He's got… a different way of viewing the world. I thought it was interesting. He um, he showed me a kindness I haven't really seen in… years. He was a good listener."
Rick let out a breath. Daryl muttered, "Shit." Beth could do nothing more than stare across the table at the other woman, perplexed and enthralled.
A good listener? Beth couldn't wrap her head around this. She needed to know more. She needed details.
Before the silence could turn awkward, Rick said, "He's got a limp. Did you see it?"
Andrea paused. "In his left leg?"
Rick nodded.
She made a sound of reluctant confirmation.
"So ya met him," Rick prodded. "You talked to Philip Blake—was this before or after your fling with Merle?"
"After," Andrea replied quickly. "Way after. I don't remember when exactly."
Daryl cut in gruffly, "But it was before ya heard about Merle's death?"
Her eyes darkened. But she quickly nodded. "Yeah. Yeah—definitely before."
The hairs on the back of Beth's neck stood on end. She wasn't sure why. But something about Andrea's reply sounded… off.
The waitress approached, and they paused their conversation just long enough for the fresh beer and the new shot of tequila to be set down. Andrea eyed the shot glass but didn't touch it.
"And what'd he say?" Rick asked, his voice gentle and coaxing. He rested his arms atop the table's edge, gazing across at Andrea with an expression that begged for honesty. "How did you meet? What'd y'all talk about?"
She stiffened defensively, dragging her eyes up to meet Rick's. She tightened her jaw and gave Beth and Daryl a wary glance. Then she locked her defiant gaze on the sheriff and asked, "What evidence do you have, exactly? What proof are you holding that could incriminate Mr. Blake? How the hell are you so sure he's a murderer?"
Rick didn't waver. He stated plainly, "I'm afraid I can't disclose that kind of information to you at this stage of my investigation, Andrea. But I think you know very well that I wouldn't be making such serious accusations if I had nothin' but ghosts to chase."
She hesitated, studying the sheriff's face and trying to gauge her next move. When he didn't budge, she relented the slightest bit and said, "As much as I trust your judgment… I trust my own a little more."
Rick merely smirked. "I understand."
Daryl interjected heatedly, "But you met him. Y'just said you talked to 'im. So what the hell'd y'all talk about? Why don't you wanna tell us?"
Andrea glared at Daryl, then she heaved a frustrated sigh and turned her attention to the tequila sitting before her. She picked up the shot glass and poured the clear liquor down her throat. Then she smacked her lips, took a hearty swig of beer, and slammed the bottle down. But she kept her eyes on the table.
"Because," she said, her voice tinged with a bitter undertone. "I'm not ready to admit I made another terrible decision." She shook her head, more to herself than anyone else. "He seemed genuine. I didn't… I would have never…"
She trailed off. Rick hummed in understanding and spoke gently, "We don't care about none'a that. Like I said, I'm not here to pass judgment. I'm just askin' for any information you might be able ta offer."
Daryl was clearly holding back a few choice words, but one sharp glance from Rick assured that his mouth stayed tightly shut. He shifted in his seat and wrapped his hand a little tighter around his beer bottle. Beth took another sip of her own beer, watching with nervous anticipation.
Andrea cleared her throat and sat up straighter, finally dragging her eyes up to meet Rick's. Her tone was near emotionless, and so quiet that Beth had to lean forward in order to hear her correctly. "I met him here. He was sitting over there at the bar, by himself—" she motioned vaguely towards one of the seats at the bar across the room "—and he came over and introduced himself. We started talking, he bought me some drinks. We laughed, flirted, got to know each other. A couple hours later, we went back to my place. He spent the night. He was the first person I'd slept with since Merle. I wasn't even that drunk, believe it or not. He was so chivalrous—made me breakfast in the morning and everything. But then, a couple weeks later, we had a real date… and…"
Rick's eyebrows were halfway up his forehead, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he listened. He gave her a look that urged her to go on.
She hesitated, obviously struggling to maintain eye contact. Her face was retaining its color again, tinged with a pink blush of embarrassment. "It got a little… weird."
Rick furrowed his brow. "Weird? In what way?"
"In every way," Andrea clarified. Her voice was still heavy with shame and regret, but she spoke with confidence all the same. "Weird as in—I couldn't piece it together until now. At the time, I thought it was some kinda trust issue. I've met plenty of men like that before, the types who can't get past their insecurities; the types that end up projecting those insecurities on every partner they have. Maybe they've been cheated on before, or led astray. But with him, it seemed a lot more specific. To the point that it was unsettling… I cut things off right afterwards. It seemed like a huge red flag." Her eyes flashed and she added, "Not that kind of red flag, but a red flag nonetheless."
Rick was contemplating his next words, but Daryl was not.
The living Dixon burst out, rather pointedly, "Specifics, please—we need details here, ya know."
Andrea seemed taken aback for a moment. "Excuse me?"
But then Rick agreed, "My apologies fer Daryl's crude approach, but he's right: I need details. What was the red flag? What did Philip say or do to change your opinion of him so drastically?"
Andrea shook her head, sighing. She took a swallow of beer and paused. She opened her mouth like she was about to answer, then decided against it and lifted the beer bottle to her lips once again. The drink went down and she pressed her mouth into a thin line. Her eyes flicked from Rick, to Daryl, to Beth, settling finally on the surface of the table with the same indecisiveness they'd held for the last several moments.
"He kept asking about who else I'd met at the bar before him. Then he started drilling me, like he thought I was lying… he wanted to know what Merle did for a living, if he had a lot of money to blow, or if I'd ever seen him flashing wads of cash. Kept asking me just how well I'd gotten to know Merle—I thought it was some psycho shit at first, like some kind of jealousy thing. Because he wanted to know if I had Merle's phone number, if we still talked, if I knew where to find him. He even asked about 'any siblings' at one point." She looked directly at Daryl when she said that, but he didn't react. She went on, "I interpreted it as jealousy. I thought he was insecure. I took it as a sign that he wasn't ready for a new relationship, and I moved on."
Daryl barked out a humorless laugh. Rick shot him a glare that shut him up immediately. Andrea didn't even acknowledge the reaction.
"So you didn't give him any of the information he was tryin' ta find?" Rick asked.
Andrea huffed out a breath and gave the sheriff a look of indignation. "Of course not. Even if I'd wanted to, I didn't have any of that information. I barely found my way back to Atlanta from Merle's cabin, and that was months before I even met Brian—er, Philip. Whatever the hell his name is. I didn't have Merle's number, and we sure as hell never discussed his family or his finances. I didn't know anything." She raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, staring at Rick intently. "And that's what really gets me… it took me this long to realize the guy was using me for information on Merle. Apparently, I'm a fucking moron."
Rick shook his head. "You're not a moron," he assured. "Blake is a con-man. You're far from the first person he's tricked into trusting him—believing in him."
Beth would've liked to account for the credibility of Rick's words, but she knew better. Instead, she nodded silently, studying the judge's face just as intently as the other two men.
Though now, she was also asking herself the same questions over and over: What do you know? Why do I feel like you're not telling us something?
"As reassuring as that is," Andrea said with a hint of sarcasm. "It doesn't solve this problem. I don't have any information for you, or your cohorts." She nodded towards Beth and Daryl, keeping her eyes on Rick. "Just a lot more unanswered questions. I certainly didn't lead Blake in Merle's direction. Clearly, I didn't have anything of use for him, otherwise he would've made more of an effort to stick around. As soon as he realized my one night stand with Merle was nothing more than that, he lost interest. I wish I could give you something more, but… that's all I've got, Sheriff Grimes."
Rick sighed. "I understand. But I just have a few more questions—"
"About what?" She snapped, growing defensive. "Do you not believe me?"
"I didn't say that," he responded calmly. "I have no doubt that yer tellin' me everything you can remember. I was just wonderin' about that date y'all went on—didn't you talk about yourselves? Didn't you learn things about him?"
She rolled her eyes. "And what makes you think anything he told me was true? He's a con-man, like you said."
Rick shrugged. "There's always a little truth ta be found in lies. That's my belief. If he mentioned anything about where he might be staying, if he's working anywhere, maybe some places he frequents or some hobbies he has… Any lead you can possibly give me."
Andrea frowned and took a long swallow of beer. She seemed to be contemplating her next move. Then she said, "He was really vague about everything. I assumed he was in-between jobs from the way he talked. And when it came to hobbies or regular haunts, I can't…" Her eyes flickered and she perked up a bit. "Actually, there was one thing."
Rick leaned forward, urging her to go on.
She cleared her throat and gazed down at the table, like she was trying to rack her brain. "We got to talking towards the end of our date, and he mentioned a party—I guess he's part of some Freemason organization or something, and they have a big Halloween bash every year. He said he'd like to bring me along. But obviously, that was before I cut him off."
"Okay, that's really good," Rick said, pulling a pen and a tiny notepad from his front shirt pocket and jotting something down. "Did he happen ta mention where the party might be? Or when? Maybe he mentioned the name of the Masonic Lodge that's hosting it?"
Andrea shook her head. "No. None of that. And if he did, I'd already had too much wine to remember any specific details."
"Damn," the sheriff muttered, tucking his pen and notepad away. "Alright, well… that's a starting point, at least."
"But I mean—how many Masonic Lodges can there be in Georgia?" She pointed out. "Maybe you could start there."
Rick nodded. "Yeah, maybe so."
But Beth could read the doubt on his face: What are the chances we could locate this specific organization, or be sure that it's the right one to find Philip?
Daryl was shaking his head and keeping his frustration bottled up, though it was clear in his expression. He pulled out his pack of smokes and tried to light one up, but a half-dozen flicks of the lighter produced no flame, and he slammed it down on the table angrily.
"Fuckin' piece'a shit," he grumbled.
Andrea gestured towards the matchbook at the other end of the table. "Use one of my matches."
"Oh—thanks," Daryl said, giving her a curt nod of appreciation.
The matchbook was slightly out of arm's reach for him, and without thinking, Beth snatched it up, intending to hand it over to Daryl and save him the stretch.
But as soon as her fingers wrapped around the small book of matches, a jolt of electricity shot through her arm. For a split-second, she felt paralyzed. Then it was like every single light around her turned off at the exact same moment. The noise of the bar went abruptly silent.
The blackness consumed her.
When she inched forward into the blackness, she didn't find much light. Instead, she was back in a painfully familiar place.
A cold, dark place. Where she could see The Governor and hear his inner thoughts.
She grit her teeth, ignored the wild writhing sensation within her core, and watched closely.
She listened even closer.
The folded-up newspaper was sitting in the passenger seat as he drove down dirt roads and near-forgotten paths, the GPS on the dashboard directing him where to go. He'd entered a very vague address—no more than a simple road name. No matter. He would drive the entire length of the road all night, if he had to. He'd find that damn cabin eventually.
"In one-thousand yards, turn left onto Bear Creek Road," the robotic female voice said.
He did as he was told, even though there were no signs left to tell him whether he was going the correct way or not. His headlights were the only source of light to be found this far out. The moon had already risen high into the sky, but it offered very little when it came to cutting through the darkness of the boonies.
To his pleasant surprise, he didn't have to drive more than five miles down Bear Creek Road before he spotted the cabin. It was kinda hard to miss, what with all the bright yellow Caution tape that was wrapped around the property.
He parked at the side of the road and shut off the GPS. Then he turned on the interior light and grabbed the newspaper, unfolding it and reading through the section he'd highlighted for about the thousandth time.
'William Anthony Dixon, aged 75, passed away in his home on Bear Creek Road, southwest of Senoia. He is survived by his children, Merle Dixon, 51, and Daryl Dixon, 41, both of Senoia…'
Finally. Fucking finally.
There were no cops around, just as he'd known there wouldn't be. They were already on day two of their investigation, and if they hadn't found anything yet, they'd surely be shutting it down within the next 48 hours. Not that it mattered. He wasn't worried about being caught out here. He just wanted to have a look around.
He started with the outside fixtures first, since he knew the police would've already cleared out anything of use within the cabin. He used the heavy-duty flashlight he'd brought and poked his way through the moonshine still out back, searching every corner and crevice, prying up every loose board he could find. After that, he moved onto the tiny shed nearby, repeating the vigorous search. Then he resorted to the outhouse, covering his nose and resisting the urge to rip the entire thing from its foundation, just in case that Dixon bastard had thought to bury the stash beneath the hole he was shitting into everyday.
But there was nothing to be found. And he was getting pissed.
He slipped beneath Caution tape and tip-toed his way into the cabin, careful not to leave any traces of his presence. The whole place smelled like death warmed over. There was still a giant pool of dried blood in the middle of the living room, and a chalk outline of a body. He smirked to himself as he pictured Will Dixon lying in a pool of his own blood, dying slowly and painfully. He only wished he'd been the murderer.
To his dismay, there was nothing to be found inside, either. Nothing of value, anyway. There was a lot of junk and trash and useless garbage. But nothing he was looking for. Not even a stash of drugs. (Damn pigs must've confiscated all the good shit already.) And not a single goddamn clue that might tell him where the fucking money was hidden.
By the looks of the place, he knew damn well that Will hadn't spent it all. That greedy motherfucker stashed it somewhere. He just had to figure out where.
By the time the sun began to rise, he was dripping with rage sweat, cursing under his breath and struggling not to lash out and put a hole in the wall. He was so fucking sick of searching. He'd thought waiting had been the hard part—it was supposed to be easy now that he knew where the fuck Will had been hiding all these years. It was supposed to be his ticket out; his kindling to a new flame of life.
But… fuck. Was it possible that the stupid old redneck actually had spent it all? Maybe he'd blown it on drugs and drink and this shitty little cabin and whatever the hell he'd needed to start making his own moonshine?
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He turned and headed for the door. Then he paused—something caught his eye. He turned the flashlight towards the ground and stepped closer. Something was lying on the floor in the corner of the room, nearly concealed beneath the kitchen cabinets.
Something the police had missed.
He leaned down and picked it up: a matchbook. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting it closely.
The front of the matchbook read: 'Let's Get Litty.' And right below that was a logo that said: 'Milton's Tavern.'
Maybe a clue? Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe a place that Will frequented? Maybe someone there would know him, or have gotten close to him? Or maybe… it was dropped by his murderer. Maybe it was a place they frequented. So maybe they'd killed him, taken his money, and…
His mind was going in several different directions. But he just smiled to himself and pocketed the small matchbook. Then he slipped back out of the cabin and climbed into his SUV, driving away with a whole new purpose in mind.
He had no idea what the fuck he was doing here. Still. He'd been coming nearly every other night for over a month. And he'd learned nothing. He'd met no one.
His search was stalled. He felt like he was at a dead end.
He'd gone back by Will's cabin a couple dozen times. But it still looked empty. There was never any sort of vehicle outside, no lights, no sound coming from inside. The only difference he could see since his first visit was the appearance of some porch furniture, but that didn't mean anything. It wasn't enough to go off of. What if the place had already been sold? Or maybe it was being condemned? If either of the sons had moved in, he couldn't tell, because the place looked damn near deserted. The Caution tape hadn't even been taken down, just tattered. And he wasn't near prepared enough to go staking the place out, or trying to catch a Dixon off-guard.
He needed information first. He needed to be ready for whatever they might throw at him. He needed to know the right questions to ask. And he needed to figure out exactly how he could kill them, if necessary, without leaving any incriminating evidence behind.
Admittedly, it wouldn't be so difficult. He'd been taking lessons over the years, absorbing information, plotting and planning inside his head. But he was also hoping it'd be a lot easier, and a lot less bloody.
Hell, who was he kidding? He'd take pleasure in killing off the last of the Dixon bloodline. He just needed to make sure it was worth his time.
The bartender at Milton's Tavern had told him that a lot of judges and lawyers frequented the place. The location was close to one of the courthouses, and sometimes they would arrive in groups, clad in suits and dresses, flashing money and dropping names, drinking away the stresses of their occupation.
He'd thought that was curious. Until he put some thought into it.
Why would Will Dixon, or anyone who associated with him, be hanging out at a bar in Atlanta that was always full of courthouse employees?
It took him a few weeks to figure it out. He had to put himself in several different mindsets to reach the inevitable conclusion. But after a little research at the library, hours spent scouring through old newspapers, public records, and Google searches, he finally had an answer.
He had a pretty damn good idea of who killed Will Dixon. And why. And more than that, he knew why they'd been visiting this particular Atlanta bar.
He wasn't positive. Maybe he was just chasing ghosts. He wanted to hear the confession for himself before he made any convictions. And maybe he would, before long. If he played his cards right.
Not that any of those circumstances changed his mind much. He didn't need much reason to eradicate Will Dixon's spawn.
He had a very good idea of who to look for, and who he needed to drain for information… but he wasn't completely positive. So he needed to be wary. He knew better than to expect to see Merle or Daryl slinking around anywhere near the bar. It was too upscale, too central. He couldn't get close enough to them yet. He needed to be careful. He was dealing with people of the court, after all. Every step should be made with caution.
(He tried to think of himself as a parasite—the kind that slid its way in through tiny pores, slinking across outer surfaces and burrowing deep into the darkness, slowly making its way from the outermost extremities to the heart and the brain. Creating his own path. One vein at a time.)
Obviously, he'd narrowed it down to females. After that, women under sixty (he could only assume). And then, singles. Which left few options.
He picked the prettiest one. And got lucky. Really fucking lucky.
She wasn't weirded out by the way he kept looking at her from across the bar—in fact, she appeared intrigued. Downright eager.
Which told him all he needed to know: she was just another slut. Exactly what he was looking for.
After that, it wasn't difficult to approach her.
She was sitting alone. When he saw that she was holding a cigarette and searching around inside her purse for a lighter, he grasped at the opportunity and walked over. And when she looked up, he simply smiled and held out the matchbook.
She smiled back and accepted it.
"You wanna sit down?" She asked, gesturing towards the empty seat across from her.
He slid down into the chair and gazed across the table at her, forcing the best 'flirty gentleman' smile he could manage. Then he reached out his hand.
"I'm Brian." He paused and added, "Brian Blake."
She took it, shaking his hand gently and smiling wider.
"Nice to meet you, Brian. I'm Andrea Harrison."
Oh yeah, he'd gotten lucky alright.
Everything after that was a fucking cake walk.
to be continued…
