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Wilson was so angry that his head throbbed.
He spent the last few days without sleep searching every nook, abandoned building and corner for Natasha. He pulled the file on every suspect he had arrested over the last five years and went to each person’s home. In some cases, he found them sitting in a church, a mosque and a temple. He did not care; he would go to a grandmother’s home if he thought Natasha might be there. No place was too sacred or off limits. With each passing day, his thoughts became darker and more prevalent. There seemed to be no end to the madness in sight. Lately he could swear that his vision blurred, and he could hardly breathe. Frustration had his nerves pulled tight like a guitar string. Wilson struggled to push back the fear and the whispers in his head telling him Natasha was dead.
He drug his hand across his face. He needed a drink.
Beads of sweat began to break out across his forehead and roll down his face. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the headrest of the car. He took slow deep breaths squeezing and releasing the steering wheel. The scent of liquor blew past his window, his stomach flipped, and his mouth watered. Alcohol was the last thing he needed. This was not the time or the place, he had to get himself together. He began to relax. The breathing technique was working.
When he opened his eyes, he stared down at his phone into the face of a man Natasha once knew.
Wilson struggled to remember his name. He balled up his fist and hit the steering wheel.
“Tim... Jim... Jerry... something. What is it?... What is it? What’s his name?” He paused. “Tim... that’s it. The jerk’s name is Tim.”
His anger soared. Wilson started his truck and flew out of the parking lot, heading straight to the address he had for Tim.
He drove a few blocks, then pulled over in front of a large ranch styled home and parked by the curb.
Wilson resisted the urge to jump out of the truck and kick in the door.
He took a moment to survey the area and his surroundings.
The hustle and bustle of day to day activity filled the street. Two houses down sat a rimless car balanced on chipped cinderblocks in a driveway. He noticed two teens taking turns walking back and forth from the trunk of the car to the backside of the house. Wilson figured they were serving people from an adjacent yard. He remembered this neighborhood that was once known for its working-class families. Now it was nothing more than a hotbed of illegal and immoral activity.
Wilson got out of the truck, making sure to lock the door as he exited his vehicle. He pounded the pavement over to the house with overgrown shrubbery.
He banged on the front door.
Wilson ran a hand down his bearded face. He knew that he looked like a madman, but he didn’t care. He was on a mission.
No answer, refusing to leave without talking to Tim, he knocked harder this time.
While waiting for someone to come, he fingered the weapon in the holster on his hip. If it came down to it, he could strangle Tim with his bare hands.
Wilson knocked once again.
This time, he heard bare feet slapping across the floor. The deadbolt made a loud clicking noise as it slid out of place, unlocking the door.
“Man, what’s up with you hitting my door like that?” he yelled as spittle flew from his mouth, hitting Wilson in the face.
Wilson chest-bumped him. “I want to talk to you,” he said with a low growl.
Tim tried to close the door, but Wilson was too fast for him.
He stepped across the threshold, pushing Tim out of the way, and slamming the door behind him. Wilson rolled his shoulders, twisted his neck, and stood erect. “What do you know about my sister’s disappearance?”
Tim almost looked concerned.
Wilson stared him straight in the eye, not blinking. He glanced around the house, looking for anything out of place. Thrown across the couch were a black trench coat, a red lace bra, and a matching thong.
Intrigued by what he saw, Wilson went over to the couch, scooped the lingerie up, holding it in the air. “When was the last time you saw my sister?”
Tim’s gaze darted around the room. He stepped back and lifted his hands. “Wilson, man, I’ve been questioned and cleared by the police.”
He moved closer to the man, invading his personal space. Wilson knew his stance was intimidating—it was the result he wanted.
“I was at a men’s mid-day Bible study. I’m a Christian now. After Natasha broke up with me, I got my life right. Shoot... in fact, our lesson was on letting God fight your battles. I got my notes if you’d like to see them.”
At the mention of Bible study, rage exploded within Wilson.
“Oh, so I’m supposed to let God fight this battle, huh?” He reared back and pimp-slapped him. “This same God who can’t see the suffering of the people. Well, no wonder you haven’t advanced any further. You’re placing your hopes and beliefs on someone who doesn’t care anything about you.”
Tim fell backward as Wilson locked his fingers around his throat. He squirmed, kicked, fought, and scratched. “You’re crazy, m-man...”
“You took my sister, you soft punk.” Wilson lifted Tim’s head, pounding it against the faux hardwood floors. He then flipped him over, placing a booted foot in the center of Tim’s back. He grabbed both of his arms as if they were on the WWF Friday Night Smackdown and pulled as he applied pressure with his foot. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. I told you if I ever came to see you again about my sister, I would kill you.”
Tim screamed, “Help me!” His breath came in short spurts. “I didn’t do anything to Natasha. I’d never hurt her.”
The sound of a feminine voice burst through the air, “What are you doing? Get away from him right now. Wilson, stop it,” she screamed. “Turn him loose right now, or I’m going to call Mrs. Verna.” She walked closer, wagging her finger at him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Wilson eyed the woman. “Tabitha, what in the world are you doing here with him? You supposed to be her friend,” he hissed. “He knows where my sister is.”
She wore a look of confusion. “What are you talking about?” She placed her hand over Wilson’s hand.
“Nat.” Wilson felt his throat closing. In a strained voice, “Natasha is missing.”
Tabitha’s hand went right to her mouth. “Wilson no, no.” She tightened her arms around her waist. “How? When?”
He felt the color drain from his face.
Tim looked just as surprised.
Wilson released both of Tim’s arms and stepped over the bloody mess he created on the floor.
Both of them looked stunned by the news of Natasha’s disappearance. He leaned against the wall, sliding downward. He sat there resting his hands on his knees with his head hanging low to his chest. Wilson knew right then and there he was wrong.
Tabitha’s words rushed out of her mouth. “I’ve been seeing him for weeks. Wilson, I promise you that Tim didn’t do this.” Tears streamed down her face. “Natasha was the one who hooked us up.”
Shame filled him. “I’m so sorry.”
Burning with humiliation, he got up off the floor, the weight of his behavior pressing into his chest cavity. Wilson wondered what his dad would think of his behavior right now. It felt like a knife being thrust through his heart, plunging him deeper into desolation. He had just crossed the line.
Tabitha looked away from Wilson, her attention now on Tim. At the sight of Tim, she began to scream. Her high pitch screams grated across the nerves in Wilson’s spine.
She ran across the room and dropped on her knees beside Tim, “I can’t believe you just did this.” She turned and glanced over at Wilson. “If I didn’t love and respect Natasha and Mrs. Verna like I do, I’d call the police station and report you myself.” She rubbed her temples. “Get out and don’t come back.” She slowly stood erect beside him.
Overcome with bitterness he threw up his hand and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Get out,” Tabitha said while pointing towards the door.
Shoulders slumped in shame; Wilson slowly opened the door and crept into the bright daylight.