The Five Pearls Read Free Page A

swig.
“Dead guys give me the creeps.”
He put the bottle back and collapsed at his desk. It wasn’t even ten a.m., but as usual, he’d be on his heels by noon.
    The taxi carrying Mr. John Battle drove north on Cascade Boulevard in what locals called the Old North End. The street was strewn with the fallen leaves of late autumn. Stately 1880’s mansions separated by high stone walls lined the street on either side, hundreds of feet back from the street.
    The cab pulled up to the curb of a large three-story frame house located in the center of the block. The house had a proud authentic appearance. A four-foot high weathercock was mounted at its peak. A simple wrought iron fence lined the front of the half-acre property with eight-foot stone walls running along the sides and back.
“What’s the damage?” Battle asked the driver.
     
“Thirty five plus a tip,” the driver said.
    Battle gave him a fifty-dollar bill from the briefcase. “Can I take my bag this time?”
The driver smiled at the crisp bill. “You’re good to go, pal.”
John forced the briefcase into the duffel bag and climbed out of the cab.
The driver spoke into a two-way radio, asking dispatch to “give me another load,” before driving off.
Battle struggled towards the low entrance gate. An oval brass address plaque was welded on the fence.
LOOMIS HOUSE BUILT 1871
    John lifted the iron gate latch. The gate easily lilted open in a slow lean towards the house. The former prisoner took the long walk towards the beautiful grand old mansion surrounded by great old trees guarding the property. He took the first step up the granite porch, feeling a sharp pain in his side. He paused, looked down and saw blood seeping through his shirt.
“Things just keep getting better.”
    Battle limped up the remaining steps to the giant oak door and knocked. He waited for someone to answer, moving the duffel bag in front of him to hide the fresh bloodstain.
    A woman in her late sixties or early seventies answered the door. She had a healthy spirit with a sense of style, class and propriety.
    “Mrs. Powell?” Battle said.
“Mister Battle, I presume.”
They shook hands gently.
“So good to finally meet you,” she continued. “I was afraid
you might not show. I have been waiting almost a week. What happened?”
    “I took a little side trip,” he grinned innocently.
“Understandable. You look exhausted, Mr. Battle.” She gestured for him to come inside. “Please. Enter. Welcome to my home.”
    He picked up his duffel bag and grimaced. His head was spinning, his legs uncertain. He entered the dim hallway. It was floored and walled with heavy dark wood. He noticed the long ornate staircase leading to a mid-floor landing that turned to the upper floors.
    “Welcome to Loomis House. My great grandfather built it over one hundred years ago. Your weekly donations will be used to catch up on the taxes and fight the bureaucrats in my never-ending crusade to get this grand old dame registered as a National Historic site.”
    “You live here alone, Mrs. Powell?”
“Yes. I buried my husband last year.”
“Kids?”
“My self-serving children escaped to the coasts years ago.” “But they still send Christmas cards?”
She turned and smiled. “Sweaters, too. Every year at least
one sweater. They think I live in an old barn, those ones.”
    He grabbed onto the bottom of the staircase. “Please don’t consider me rude, Mrs. Powell, but would you happen to have a...” he set down the duffel and exposed his bloody shirt. “A Band-Aid?”
    Battle’s knees buckled and he slid to the floor. Mrs. Powell knelt over him and examined his wound.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the elderly woman spoke with admonishment. “What is this? Have you been a naughty boy, Mr. Battle?”
“For the right reasons, Mrs. Powell. I sold a kidney down in Mexico.”
“Illegally, I’ll bet. No stateside doctor would take a kidney from someone with your medical problems. It’s inhumane.” She