With the rise of superhuman activity in North Carolina, the Federal Government collaborated with the State to develop the North Carolina Supernatural Sheriffs Association (NCSSA). In 2001, eight supernormal individuals entered the Supernatural Sheriffs program to become supernatural peacekeepers. Once sworn in, they worked with North Carolina’s most populated Counties to assist local law enforcement against super-powered criminals. Ten years have passed since the program’s inception.
Wake County, North Carolina
For three days, protesters and supporters have rallied on Edmonton Street to raise enthusiasm for their different judgments of supernormal people. “She’s a super freak, super freak, she’s super freaky, super freak, super freak,” supernormal and superhuman supporters carol outside the North Carolina State Capitol in downtown Raleigh. The supporters dressed for the overcast autumn day.
Across East Edenton Street from them, supernormal and superhuman protesters assembled in front of the North Carolina Museum of History to heckle their political adversaries. “Superiority complex is just an inferiority complex,” the protesters repeatedly chant in unison. They carry white picket signs with their chant scribbled on them in blue paint. Some showed up to their demonstration wearing shredded and vandalized versions of The Heathen, Prick, and Brass Man costumes to affirm their dislike and disdain for the Museum’s Superhuman exhibition.
Each stubborn side vows to continue their remonstrations until a disembodied exhibition or until a party becomes overwhelmed and walks away. Even though the protests are peaceful thus far, several school systems have canceled their field trips to the Museum of History for student safety and security concerns. The scheduled exhibition will be on display for nine more weeks.
Gaston County
The man called Rover Clemons has returned home from a two-year prison sentence in a South Carolina petitionary. With no family or friends to pick him up from release, it took Rover almost four days to return to Gaston County. He is 62, in poor health, addicted to the drug fuel, and has been a lawbreaker since his minor years. His arrests have been primarily for theft, some aggravated assaults, and being under the influence of alcohol or fuel. The last arrest was from manufacturing and distributing domestic fuel, leading several high school athletes to a Columbia hospital for internal bleeding.
Rover is currently trespassing on some private hunting land along the South Fork Catawba River. He climbed a wood ladder to an 8-ft by 8-ft by 8-ft hunting blind built in the branches of several maple trees that overlook the river. Inside the wooden structure, sitting on the old deck board floor, he’s drinking cheap liquor from a plastic bottle and looking at a pornographic magazine by candlelight. The night’s temperature lowered, and he swears that drinking the Old Crow whiskey (he snatched from a Belmont Alcoholic Beverage Control (ABC) store) will keep him warm. The images in the magazine make him giggle like an elementary school kid. He swigs a mouthful of whiskey that runs from his mouth and onto his overgrown beard. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his soiled camouflage jacket. The air movement is causing trees to creak and moan outside the tree fort. These sounds turn Rover paranoid. He stands up from the squeaking floor with his candle in hand and walks toward the doorframe where someone has draped a piece of green plastic for a makeshift door. He moves the plastic like a shower curtain and peers outside but sees nothing suspicious. After his investigation, he’s back sitting on the floor with his liquor and dirty pictures.
Moments later, he hears a whack on a tree fort wall, like someone launched a baseball at it. He jumps. It is only the wind, he thinks. Another blow on a different partition. I don’t believe that is wind; he fears. Rover springs up from the floor, still grasping the glass liquor bottle in his right hand and the candle in his left. Someone snaps open the plastic door and steps into the tree fort. A frightful Rover lifts the candle up to reveal the silhouette of a towering person with a sword strapped to their back, which he recognizes. “Not you, The Heathen,” Rover squawks. He drops the candle and hurls the liquor bottle toward The Heathen. Heathen dodges the bottle that shatters into pieces behind him. With no escape, Rover recedes to a corner opposite his advancer. The Heathen watches Rover with the help of his night vision goggles.
“Rover Clemons, what are you doing back in my county? You were told never to come back here,” Heathen tells him. “And you really shouldn’t have thrown that bottle, which was a deliberate attack on an officer of the law. Now I have to charge you with that also.”
“Get away from me; I don’t trust you, Sheriffs,” Rover screams.
“You know, Rover, when the owner of this land called the station to tell us that someone is trespassing, I didn’t think it was going to be you, and I bet you were also the upright citizen who stole from the ABC store. Yes, sir, we received that call also,” Heathen rambles.
“I am not going back. I just got out,” Rover declares. He charges Heathen like a bull toward a matador in a bullfight. The Heathen braces and kicks the fuel head in the chest with his boot heel. Rover slants backward, slips on the pornographic magazine, and hits the floor, gasping for the air that left his body. “I can’t breathe; I’m dying,” he croaks, flopping around like a fish out of water. The magazine goes airborne and lands on Heathen’s boots. The Sheriff looks down at the publication and kicks it off with a snub thrust. Stain bag, he thinks.
“You aren’t dying. I just kicked the shit out of you,” Heathen tells the whiner. “Get up; I have to arrest you now.”
Down at the Gaston County Sheriff’s Office, they charged Rover Clemons with attempted assault on a police officer for throwing the bottle at Heathen, criminal trespassing for entering the hunting blind, and shoplifting the Old Crow from the Belmont ABC store. Even in the workplace, The Heathen wears his costume. No one can know his secret identity. He wears a long 10-inch brown wig to hide his head, a burgundy half-ski mask to cover his face, a dark grey Kevlar vest and full-length shearling jacket for body protection, black tactical pants, and black swat boots. His weapons of choice are a 37-inch longsword that straps to his back and a kept silver .45-caliber handgun holstered under his jacket. The Heathen was born with Olympic-level strength, enhanced reflexes, superior agility, and heals quickly.
The Heathen suddenly feels something move inside an inner jacket pocket. Someone is calling him. Usually, he wouldn’t take personal phone calls in the workplace, but this one, he answers. His parents only call with a reason. He walks into an empty office.
“Hello,” Heathen says.
“Bobby, are you up? Sorry to call late,” his Mom apologizes. He hears the unhappiness in her voice.
“Yeah, Mom. I am up. What’s wrong?” Heathen nervously senses that something isn’t right.
“He died. Your Dad passed away today.”
Wake County
Robert “Bobby” Candle II, the secret identity of The Heathen, is getting dressed for his Dad’s funeral in his old bedroom inside his Parent’s Garner house. Two days and two nights have passed since he arrested Rover Clemons and found out he died. He left his Mount Holly millhouse the morning after to drive the 184 miles to Garner to arrive for lunch with his Mom. He spent the last days with his Mom making funeral and burial arrangements. He spent the in-between nights alone in his bedroom, missing his Dad and grieving his death. Most days, Bobby is either a real estate broker or keeping supernormal peace as The Heathen, but today he has to the son whose Father just died.
Bobby is standing before a rustic six-drawer double dresser and a long rectangular dresser mirror. He watches his reflection as he ties his red necktie with a half-Windsor knot. Bobby has matched his red tie with a grey double-breasted Ralph Lauren suit, brown shoes, and a white oxford suit also made by Ralph Lauren. “Bobby, are you almost ready,” he hears his Mom yell from downstairs.
“Yeah, Mom, I’ll be right down.” He quickly makes up the queen size bed in the military style his Dad taught him. As a kid, Bobby fought his Dad about making the bed before school; his Dad would tell him that making your bed starts your day right. Making the bed today is even more fitting, he thinks. His accidental pun makes him smile. He joins his Mom in the kitchen, who is sipping black coffee, which matches the color of her long sleeve conservative dress, veil, and white pearls. “I am ready when you are.” They leave for the funeral.
—-
Bobby Candle stood before the funeral congregation and improvised the following speech:
“Thank you, Governor Nettles; those were gracious and sweet words about my departed Dad. I learned something today in the car ride over with Mom. She told me that this year would’ve been their 40th anniversary. My parents were two months away from a ruby. They got married right here in this sanctuary, below this very altar. I haven’t been home in a very long time. It has been great reacquainting myself with the Garner Community, Lakeview Baptist Church, friends of the family, and the Candle-Woods family. I wish it were under different circumstances, like my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary, and not for a sacred ceremony that involves burying my Dad. I am a little nervous up here. Former Governor Robert Candle I was a man of many accomplishments and successes. One of them stands before you.” Pause. The congregation laughs at Bobby’s joke. “We all know some, like how he fought for individual supernatural rights and his response efforts after Hurricane Floyd devastated the coastline. We could sit here all day going through the list. Everyone in this room celebrating his life is the purest accolade of his achievements. Our family tree has deep roots in North Carolina. How many generations back, I don’t know. My Dad said we are North Carolina purebreds, which was funny and odd to hear as a kid. It’s still funny and odd as a thirty-one-year-old. My Dad was a rightful family man. Robert and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye or stand on common ground, but I know he loved me in his way. He loved my Mom, his staff, our family, and this State. He loved North Carolina like a mistress. He never lived anywhere else and probably never thought about leaving. I even boldly say, whether, by blood or water, he considered everyone in North Carolina a part of his extended family. Yep, the rightful family man. I want to end with our State’s motto, “Esse Quam Vidar – to be, rather than to seem.” Thank you.”
—-
Two City of Garner Police cars guides the Robert Candle funeral procession down East Garner Street to Garner Memorial Park, where the former Governor’s burial plot is located. Following close behind the police is the Black Cadillac conveying Robert’s body and casket. In the hearse’s rear is the black Cadillac limousine transporting the Candle-Woods family. Next after the limo, in tight formation, is the remaining twenty-five to thirty motor vehicles belonging to funeral attendees in motion toward the cemetery. The funeral furtherance moves five miles below the posted 35-mile-per-hour Garner Street speed limit. Oncoming traffic has stopped to show respect and to let the line of headlights and flashing hazard signals pass by freely, a common tradition in the South.
Garner Memorial Park is a straight 1.5-mile distance from Lakeview Baptist Church. The now leading Cadillac makes a right turn into the City-owned cemetery. The caravan of funeral cars succeeds the hearse like a game of Follow the Leader—the Cadillac parks on a section of secondary road near Robert Candle’s plot location. The limousine driver stops behind the hearse to leave a large enough gap for the pallbearers to retrieve the casket. Moments later, the secondary road becomes a parking lot as the remaining funeral cars stable themselves in a meandering line down the roadside. The sounds of slamming doors echo through the park. Designated funeral attendants direct the swarm of politicians, Candle-Woods family friends, and other funeral attendees to the burial plot. Bobby Candle escorts his Mom to the seating area beside the plot. Afterward, he joins the other pallbearers behind the black hearse.
The six pallbearers carefully remove the casket from the hearse’s interior. The North Carolina state flag covers the solid poplar wood casket. Bobby, his Mom’s brother, cousin, Senator Jones, Representative Newton, and former Lieutenant Governor Stewart all white-glove grip the casket’s swing bars. The pallbearers advance toward the burial plot with grace and poise, except for the white-haired Stewart, who begins to weaken and shake halfway through their march. Bobby’s strength gives him an advantage over the other pallbearers. The funeral attendees watch them swing the casket atop the lowering device. The pallbearers release the swing bars and take their saved positions among the funeral crowd. Bobby fills the empty folding chair beside his composed Mom. Reverend Marsh begins his closing remarks, “Robert Candle, you were our cardinal, first in flight….” Bobby reaches for his Mom’s hand to give interlocking comfort. He spaces out momentarily, and Marsh is finished when he returns. The State University marching band members play a brass and percussion version of “The Old North State” as funeral attendants lower Robert Candle’s body into the dirt below ground level, 434 feet above sea level.
Guildford County
The burial of Bobby’s Dad was less than 24 hours ago. Bobby leaves his Garner family home for Greensboro. From Garner, he takes Interstate 40 West to a State Bank branch location to surprise an old friend. He arrives at the bank a little after 9 a.m. Bobby sees the bank teller, Heather Vaughn, inside the building, working the middle transaction window. He joins her customer line and patiently waits for his turn. Bobby takes a nervous step toward the window where Heather is busy writing banking information onto a State Bank writers pad. “How can I help you?” she says, unknowingly; Bobby is standing a few feet from her.
“Good morning, Heather.” Pause. The familiar voice interrupts her scribbling. She slowly raises her head to see a smiling Bobby.
The unguarded Heather exclaims, “Bobby Candle,” with an awful tone. She awkwardly bites the inside of her mouth.
“How are you doing? It’s been a while,” Bobby remarks.
Heather pauses. She quickly does the math in her head. Figuring out how long it’s been since the last time. “It has been around eight years,” she rips.
“Has it been that long?” Bobby teases with a twist in his smile. His hands were in his pockets.
“What do you want? Why are you here after all this time?” Heather asks. She’s suddenly quaking with resurfaced resentment and hatred toward the Governor’s son. Under her counter, she tests the durability of a State Bank writing pen. The applied tension to the pen makes it bend almost to a snap.
“I’ve come to talk. I’ve come to clear the air between us. I also need your help,” Bobby reveals.
“Why would I help you?” Heather says.
“My Dad died a few days ago,” Bobby lowers his voice. He scuffs his shoe on the marble bank floor.
After a pause, Heather’s anger toward Bobby quickly becomes deluded compassion for him. “I am sorry for your lost.”
“Would you meet me for lunch?” Bobby starts breathing heavily. His nose begins to wrinkle. He hopes she says yes.
“Yes,” Heather purrs like a fat cat in their owner’s lap.
“I passed a Wild Wings. Can you meet me there around noon?”
“Sure,” Heather confirms. After a few more exchanges with Bobby, she watches him leave the bank. She’s left quivering with old memories of her ex-boyfriend. She uses a tissue to wipe secretion from her eyes. She shakes after all these years.
—-
Inside Wild Wing, Bobby looks at his watch and sees the hands point to 12:24 p.m. It was two minutes since the last time he checked it. Bobby is wearing a Red Canes hat, a blue flannel shirt, khaki pants, and grey low hiking shoes made by North Face. On the table is a plate of ten teriyaki wings for him and a grilled chicken Caesar salad he ordered for Heather. Bobby wishes the sweet tea drinking was a beer or liquor drink. Something to take the edge off, he thinks. Bobby is nervous and anxious about their lunch but also embarrassed she’s late and looks like a no-show. The Wild Wing entrance door opens, and Bobby perks toward it but again, no Heather. He wishes the mother and son entering the restaurant, was she?
Twenty-eight-year-old Heather Vaughn is in her car outside Wild Wing. She’s strategically waiting for 12:30 to join Bobby inside. After one final appearance check in her rearview mirror, she grips the car steering wheel and screams, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
Almost giving up on Heather, Bobby sees her enter the restaurant. He stands up and waves to get Heather’s attention. She’s wearing oversized black sunglasses, an army green long coat, and carrying a black leather shoulder bag. Bobby sees her walking toward him with a fierce pace. Here we go. She’s still so beautiful, he thinks.
“Hello, Heather. Please join me.” Heather sits with her bag on her lap. “I was about certain you weren’t coming,” Bobby whimpers.
“I almost didn’t. Dr. Langford said I should come,” Heather tells him. She takes off her sunglasses and puts them inside her bag. Her green eyes focus on Bobby. She tucks her brunette hair behind her ears. “So what do you want?”
“I ordered you a salad. I hope you still like grilled chicken Caesar salad.”
Heather looks down at the uneaten salad. “I’m not hungry. Thanks. I have to be back at work at one.”
“Okay. Let’s get started, then. First off, I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry.” Bobby takes a sip of sweet tea. Pause. He waits for her reaction. He gulps, almost choking on the liquid going down his throat.
Heather squeezes her bag. “Why are you sorry? Dr. Landford said I needed you to admit to what it–“
“That’s twice now you mentioned Dr. Landford. Who is he?” Bobby interrupts. He begins to rub the back of his neck.
“He is my psychologist. I’m in therapy. I called him after you left,” Heather reveals, grinding her teeth.
“I see. Suppose it helps to move to the second thing. I guess I’m sorry for breaking up with you. For walking away.” Bobby looks at Heather. Her eyes seem homesick.
“Thank you for your honesty, even if it seemed half-ass genuine,” Heather tells him, “and the second thing.” Bobby reaches for Heather’s knee under the table. She blocks his attempt with her bag. She hates me, he thinks. “I need your help,” Bobby recedes into a straight-upright position.
Heather rolls her eyes. “So that’s it. I thought you came to reconcile after all this time. You’re still the selfish boy who left running with his tail dragging eight years ago.”
“Please, Heather. I know I’m a jerk. Check. You resent me for what I did. Double-check. Hear me out, and if I need to get on my knees, I will.” He sees Heather become too flinch. She shakes her head back and forth.
“Please don’t. The last time you kneed in front of me, you asked me to marry you. I said yes. Why, I don’t know,” Heather cries.
“Okay, Heather Vaughn, I’ll stay seated. Please help me contact my dead Dad. I need you to do this. Please. I’m desperate,” Bobby pleads. He pushes the sleeves of his flannel shirt up. It appears Heather isn’t listening to him. She is currently more interested in studying a baseball poster beside them.
“You know I can’t. Does Brass Man know you’re here?” Heather asks her former fiancé.
Bobby begins to sag in his chair. “Not exactly,” he leans forward, placing his clenched fist on the table. “I don’t care about Brass Man – family is more important than the Sheriffs right now.”
“We were family,” Heather grimaces. “I’m sorry about your Dad, but I came here for closure.” Did her psychologist come up with that idea, Bobby thinks? “You can’t comprehend what you are asking of me. Someone died the last time I used my powers,” Heather blurts. Pause. She runs her fingers through her hair. Bobby looks around to see if anyone has heard Heather. He makes a gesture for Heather to calm down.
“The Body Guard, please, the one called; Eyes deserved it,” Bobby inserts under his breath.
“Yeah, maybe, but he had a wife and daughter who bank where I work.”
Bobby sees guilt take over Heather’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He notices tears forming around her green eyes. She grabs a white paper napkin from the table and wipes the tears.
“I see them all the time. The daughter is sixteen now. She’s so nice. I don’t deserve her kindness. I haven’t used my powers since then. You seem to have forgotten my vow,” Heather reminds Bobby.
“I totally forgot. I’m sorry again,” Bobby admits.
“Then why should I support you today?” Heather’s voice wavers.
“Because we once loved each other,” Bobby says soft and slow.
The emotional Heather looks at Bobby, “Not good enough.” She checks the time and sees it’s almost one o’clock. “I have to get back to work.” She opens her purse and reaches into it to retrieve her sunglasses and an object.
“Okay, if not that. You spoke of closure. I will do whatever you need to get yours. Please, help me get mine with my Dad,” Bobby barters his last attempt for her help.
“I am not sympathetic to your needs but empathize with what you need. To what we both need. I will help you, but this doesn’t mean I’m back. I left the Sheriff’s life behind me. Once we do this, I plan to leave you behind also,” Heather bows her head. She rests her sunglasses on her nose and face.
“Great! What do you need?” Bobby asks.
“Well, this was always awful and morbid, but I need to be in the place where your Dad died. The place of death is an anchor of some sort. His spirit is there. I will contact him there. That’s how it works,” Heather expands.
“Come to Garner tomorrow. To my parent’s house. To my Mom’s house now,” Bobby suggests, “for dinner; she’ll love to see you.”
Heather agrees, grabs Bobby’s hands, and inserts the object from her purse into them. “For closure,” she tells him. After letting go of Bobby’s hands, she leaves the restaurant. Bobby opens his hands and sees the diamond engagement ring he gave her the night he proposed. “For closure,” he repeats, staring at the ring.
<END OF PART 1>
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