Flying Clean

Flying Clean Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Before we could make off on our adventure- and please realize that this was the first time the Desmonds had been more than ten miles from home and little Willy and Heather had never left the farm- there was a small matter that had to be seen to; a certain smaller bundle within my canvas tarpaulin.

One month previous, I had made my strenuous run into Hambria, but had hitched a ride farther on to Davenport, the next town over. I had gone to a small shop in the center of town called Miller's that had seemed an eerie parallel of Nan's Market. It was the only time since coming to the Desmond farm that I had spent money. In a wax paper wrap, I had carried my fortune- by then, it had grown to more than sixty dollars- and I had purchased certain supplies I would need if and when my escape plan came to fruition. Afterward, I had hitched back into Hambria with a large paper sack and had walked home, hiding my purchases two miles away that I would gather up during my overnight, insomniac stroll.

It was this paper sack that I produced then, from within the twine-tied canvas bundle, while the Desmonds huddled together protectively, as if in the wake of a particularly virulent crisis. I suppose that was exactly what it was. From within the sack, I produced a fresh set of clothing for myself and the Desmonds- not exactly grand clothing, but it was far more expensive than what they were known to wear. The Desmonds and I changed clothing while I explained that we would soon be on the run from police and men and women who might recognize us. I didn't have to tell them where they would end up if we were caught.

Dressed in our finer clothes, feeling as if a new beginning on life was not only plausible but guaranteed, I produced a bottle of peroxide and a pair of shears. John assisted me in my work, cutting Heather's hair short while I worked with the chemical to lighten the color of Susan's hair. Because she was the only Desmond to take after Marjory's dark hair, we would have been more easily noticed for the nuance. We all agreed that the disguise was for the best, though I thought Susan was unhappy about it, nonetheless. Her hair had been beautiful at its glossy shine of raven's plumage and had seemed to be a small vanity of hers. Although the blonde hair didn't look bad on her, it seemed to rob her visage of a little liveliness, combining with her pallid skin and making her seem tired, older, and ill. I suppose, due to circumstance, that it was for the best.

As we finished up and ate a small meal of bread and potatoes, I was feeling more and more uncertain about our disguises, and I know now that it was wise to be paranoid. For, though we had crossed the state line over the night and were far out of reach of the Desmonds, the news of the disappearance had spread far, as quickly as the hay in the old barn had spread with fire that fateful night.

I suppose it could have been any number of things which caused the kidnapping to become sensationalized, but for all the things I have accredited it to over the years, I think it was likely the fault of Captain Kesslinger and the mayor of Hambria. It was no secret in the sleepy little town that Kesslinger was desperate for proper action- he had been dreadfully discontent in his police duties in the small village. It had been rumored for years that he wanted to move onto policing a city somewhere, but because of Hambria's lack of real crime, he would never have been taken seriously by a city police force. I presume that Kesslinger sought to take advantage of the kidnapping, that if he could bring down the soon-to-be notorious Derrick Hardy, then he would have a golden ticket to higher police work in better places. It was this personal avarice that likely inspired him to persuade Mayor Kimble to up the ante on the local search; though Mayor Kimble's role in this was likely more than pawn-like. Everyone knew he was a whore for votes and if he were to personally fund the capture of the infamous Derrick Hardy, his election would be secured over and over again.

We would find later, and with much dismay, that Mayor Kimble had collected a large sum of money and matched it with his own for my capture. Kimble funded a nation-wide search for me, offering a mind-numbing sixty thousand dollar reward. In the Midwest in the late nineteen thirties, I don't know how he collected such a sum- perhaps he sold his soul to Old Scratch, the way the blues musicians claimed to have done.