A buzzer startled Naomi awake. The sound of the alarm, her surroundings, the windows, the ceiling, the room, everything was off.
She sat up, groggy, her mouth cottony. She reoriented herself.
This was not Austin, but rather her first night in her new Georgetown home, in a quaint new community of twenty-eight townhouses, a cloister surrounded by an urban venue. From this point forward she’d spend most of her non-working, non-court time here. Being realistic, she knew a lot of that time would be spent working as well. Regardless, she planned to keep the Austin condo. It was home to her and her kids, and also the last place her husband Reed had called home, with her, which made it home, period.
Out of the shower, she dressed herself in a smart gray skirt suit and white blouse. She wasn’t moved in by a long shot. That would happen later in the week when the rest of her clothing, furniture, and other personal belongings were delivered. The townhome came partially furnished, appointed with a well-equipped kitchen, some geeky electronic gadgetry, and an incredible sound system she’d enjoyed last night while she read briefs in her den.
She grabbed the TV remote, found CNN and put on her earrings. A “BREAKING NEWS” header hijacked the news crawl. She raised the volume as the front doorbell chimed. At six a.m. this would be Edward, punctual to the minute. Except now she was preoccupied by the news story. Her feet stayed planted in front of the TV. “Planned Parenthood bombed last night…Virginia…one confirmed dead.”
An overzealous sort might think this barbaric act could somehow have been directed at the Court. Then again, she’d have been naïve to think that given the fall case docket, it could be ruled out as having nothing to do with it. The doorbell chimed again. She heard Edward project a low but determined voice through the door. “Deputy Trenton, ma’am. Please open up.”
Naomi quickstepped over, her high heels click-clacking the tiled foyer. Another chime, then came a fist pummel. She opened the door. “Edward, I’m so sorry. Have you seen, oh, I guess you have.”
Edward’s gun was drawn, his phone to his ear. He reholstered his weapon, spoke into his phone. “Hugh? Trenton. Never mind. I’m with her now. Thanks.”
The phone back in his pocket, he addressed Naomi, his tone serious. “Madam Justice, we need to talk.”
Larinda was on her knees in prayer, next to the motel room bed. “Thank you, Lord. I am humbled by your blessing.” She’d saved unborn lives last night. Her reward had been a revitalizing overnight rest.
Today she wanted to accomplish three things: change her appearance, acquire new transportation, and since it was Sunday, attend a church service somewhere.
Her newest SUV was history. It could have been easy to eliminate considering its contents, a ready-made munitions dump, but she hadn’t gone that way, even though she’d been tempted. She instead carried everything into her motel room and abandoned the vehicle in the dead of night in a parking lot off a wooded section of town called the Huckleberry Trail. By midnight she was back in her room.
Preference by L’Oreal. Her hair color choice, for today and the rest of this job, was Purest Black. She sat on the bed cross-legged in bra and panties in front of the TV, eating a jelly donut and sipping coffee from the lobby. Her hair, piled slick and glistening atop her head, absorbed the dye. She’d go from blonde to crow black in under thirty minutes. Draped around her neck and shoulders was a white towel in case the dye got away from her, which it did. Light black shadows colored the tops of her ears, darkened her wispy girly sideburns, and spread onto the sunburned nape of her neck beneath stray hair strands. She would buff the shadows out with peroxide after the news segment ended and she finished her donut.
Blacksburg VA Planned Parenthood Office Explodes. One confirmed dead.
CNN, MSNBC, plus we-interrupt-this-program thirty-second news updates on other network stations. Anchors, experts, a few eyewitnesses, and a pissed-off lawyer from the firm on the second floor of the building, all appeared in front of the cameras. Foreign terrorism or domestic? A gas line leak? A lightning strike? Yes, no, neither, both, all, maybe, probably, and some I-don’t-knows. Larinda sipped more coffee, checked the room’s thin local information binder, and found a nearby church with a ten o’clock service.
‘Pure Black.’ Crow-black hair color with a sheen. Like the Montana tribe she remembered from her American History studies, the Crow Nation; stereotypical Indian squaws in general. So proud of their straight black hair and their thick, copper-brown skin. Such savages. She could duplicate the hair, but for the time being her skin would need to settle for the reddish-tan tint the tanning session had given it. She’d maybe augment it with another session somewhere later, or a spray tan, to hide her freckles. All this to sell it, to sell her, better. To buy a few seconds of curiosity or hesitation, or misdirection, which could mean the difference between success or failure.
“Authorities are currently analyzing footage from multiple security cameras and taking statements from witnesses.”
Larinda needed to determine her next move.
It was Sunday. Unfortunately this one would not be a day of rest.
Back to the binder, to check for rental car information. Enterprise Rent-A-Car: “We’ll pick you up.” She left a message, soon received a return call confirming she’d be good to go shortly.
This work had always made her a chameleon. Fake IDs, stolen credit card info, all of it the courtesy of unwary senior citizen contributors to a certain Texas ministry run by Reverend Higby Hunt, her spiritual advisor and her connection to The Faithful. “Use them for God’s work only, and only when we assign it,” the reverend had directed her. A self-prescribed mission to D.C.? Once they saw the outcome, they’d be good with it.
Rental car delivery was scheduled for nine a.m. The church service was at nearby Christiansburg Presbyterian. She opened an end table drawer, lifted out the Bible. After she showered she would spend some time with it. After that, she’d toss it into her gym bag.
The anchor on the TV screen cut into her thoughts, “Blacksburg Planned Parenthood explosion now labeled a terrorist act. Homeland Security, the FBI…”
She decided there was time only for one more clinic. The unborn babies scheduled to die there, whichever clinic she picked, would live at least one more day. She’d pray that their stay of execution, and the spectacle that provided it, would give their mothers the impetus to change their minds.
Larinda was not a terrorist. She was a crusader.
Roanoke was next up on her list, but it was less than an hour away. Too close to Blacksburg. That left Falls Church. Four hours away per her GPS. The last clinic in Virginia before she entered D.C.