Chapter 12
Mort looked at the light blue digital clock in his car, it was almost 11 o'clock. It was pitch black outside due to the cloudy skies that took over the night sky. He followed the man to an apartment complex, where he saw him get out and open the door to apartment 305. Mort sat in his car, contemplating whether or not he should get out and confront the stranger. His mind became flooded with thoughts. He began to hear voices coming at him from all directions.
"Get out of the car!"
"Kill him!"
"He's fu.cking your girlfriend!"
"She'll leave you for him!"
"She hates you!"
"She'll find out what you did to Amy!"
"You won't get away with it!"
Over and over, the phrases repeated in his mind. Mort got out of the car, trying to escape the voices. But they seemed to follow him. Then as quickly as they came, they were all gone. All but one, that is. He heard the slow, southern drawl that he had become so familiar with. It had been a while since Mort had heard it, but it instantly made him relax.
"You know what to do, Mr. Rainey," the voice said, "Go get it."
It? What was it? Oh, that, Mort thought to himself. In a trance like state, he popped the trunk, walked to the rear of the car and pulled 'it' out.
"You know what to do with it," the voice continued.
Just then, Mort took the black Amish style hat from his from his hands and placed it on his head. Also in the trunk was a large butcher's knife which he placed in his back pocket. After closing his car door, Mort made his way to apartment 305.
He quietly knocked on the door. He knew that the man was still awake because he heard the television running. Just then Mort heard footsteps make their way to the door. The door opened and he was face to face with the man who was trying to take Deja away from him.
"Can I help you?" Darrell questioned.
"Yes, I do believe you can," Mort said in his southern accent. "I saw you with my girlfriend earlier and wanted to know what your relationship with her is?"
Darrell looked confused. Who was this country bumpkin? he thought. "And who might you be?"
"The name's John Shooter," Mort said, "and Deja Brown is my girlfriend."
It hit Darrell like a ton of bricks. This was the guy Deja had been dating. Didn't look like her type, but who was he to judge. Darrell wasn't up for confrontation tonight, so he wanted to get rid of this hick asap.
"Oh, it's not what you think," Darrell began, laughing, "I'm Darrell, an old friend of Deja's..."
Darrell kept talking, but by then Mort had zoned out. He was only focused on this guy's name. It was her ex, Darrell. The man who had put Deja through so much pain and suffering. How could she ever want to see him again? It wasn't making sense in Mort's mind. And it most certainly wasn't making sense to Shooter.
Mort had zoned back in at the end of Darrell's excuse "...so there's nothing to worry about, right?"
"Do you mind if we talk a little further?" Mort asked.
"Sure, come on in," Darrell moved to the side and let Mort inside his living room. "Have a seat and I'll get you a beer."
"Won't be needin' that."
"So, Deja never told me you were from the south," Darrell was trying to make light conversation, "where are you from?"
"Miss'ippi." Deja had told this guy about their relationship. It was so sacred to them, he'd thought. How could she?
Darrell had made his way back over to the couch across from the chair Mort was seated on.
"Have you and Deja been seeing each other?" Mort wanted to know.
"No, not really. We just recently began talking again," Darrell said nervously. The last thing he wanted to do was get Deja 'in trouble' with her new beau. And he knew if Deja's relationship with this guy ended because he did or said the wrong thing, Deja would be out for his blood. That was the last thing Darrell wanted. "But she basically said she had no interest in having a friendship with me," he quickly added.
"Well, that's good to know," Mort said, standing up, "but I've got to be 100 percent positive that you stay away from her."
Mort's positioning was making Darrell a little uneasy. As he began to rise from his couch, Mort lunged in his direction pinning him down. The two men began to wrestle when suddenly Darrell felt something cold and slick in Mort's back pocket.
"What the hell is wrong with you man?" Darrell screamed.
"Oh not as much as what's gon' be wrong with you, when I'm finished," Mort spoke in a calmed tone.
"I told you there was nothing going on with me and Deja," he was now gasping for air as Mort had him pinned to the floor.
"Well, I'm gon' make damn sure of that!" And with that Mort pulled the large knife from his pocket and pressed it into Darrell's chest. He slid the knife back out and repeated to stab him several more times. Blood spewed everywhere.
Mort couldn't keep track of how many times he'd stabbed Darrell, but he knew it was enough to kill him. By the time he was done, Mort was out of breath. He just wanted to roll over and go to sleep.
He lifted himself off the now dead body and made his way over to the kitchen sink. Careful not to touch anything with his hands, he turned on the faucet and cleaned the knife. He walked back to Darrell's lifeless form, picked up his hat and walked out the door to his car.
Mort drove back Tashmore Lake in a daze. Once there, he threw his clothes into the washing machine and took a long hot shower. He made his way to the bed and fell asleep and when waking the next morning he had no recollection of the night before.
