The Evolution of TJ Wilde: Run Aground, Pt 1

I just kind of conjured them up out of my subconscious and put them in order of ascending peculiarity.
Edward Gorey

Since the TJ Wilde trilogy is completed and there are some folks new to it, I thought I might go back and explain how TJ came to be.

Believe it or not, one morning I woke up and the opening scene to Run Aground was fully formed. TJ somehow sprang to life and refused to be quiet about it.

There she was, running for her life in the morning hours, just before dawn. And where was she running to? Why, a funeral home, of course. It all made sense somehow. She explained it all:

ONE

There is nothing more intimidating than a clean white canvas and a palette of colors.
– TJ Wilde

I’m TJ Wilde-Mason, soon to be simply TJ Wilde again – Tammy Jean Wilde to be exact. My mother was a big country western fan. No one, and I mean no one, calls me Tammy Jean, not even my mother. Before I entered kindergarten I began the resistance. I would only answer to TJ. It was an epic battle.

“Tammy Jean, I just spoke to your teacher. Misbehaving and it’s only the first week of kindergarten, what am I going to do with you? Tammy Jean? Tammy Jean, don’t you give me that silent treatment. Stubborn as your father, may he rest in peace. Tammy Jean?”

It was TJ or nothing. I refused to end up a big-haired country western singer with fake eyelashes and even faker boobs…or working a stripper’s pole. You know, like my older cousin Kelli-Jo Kelley. I had definite ideas as a child. Not much has changed.

I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing standing in the dark with my ear pressed against this door. Fair question. I’m afraid the answers are more complicated than I have time for right now, considering I’m running for my life at this precise moment. But, I’ll give you the highlights.

I’m standing in the dark because this is embalming room number two at Butterfield Funeral Home and Crematory. If I turn on the light, what I will see is Mr. Frank Absom in all his glory laid out on table one. On table two, depending on whom you believe, a Deputy U.S. Marshal who died in the line of duty or a dirty cop who got caught up in a gambling ring in the heart of Peoria, IL. He’s naked as the day he was born and since I almost went out on a date with him, I’d rather not see him in that condition. Don’t get me wrong, naked is fine when your equipment still works, but he’s long past that point.

If I sound cold and disrespectful, it is only because if I stopped to think about what that really means, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. In a situation like this, denial is your friend. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

The first thing you realize when you work at a funeral home – oh and I do work at this funeral home, temporarily, until my divorce is finalized. Well, actually, until my Soon-To-Be-Ex: (a) finally decides to sign the papers, (b) comes out of the closet, and (c) gets on with his life. Then I am out of here, never to be seen again. That is if I make it out of this room without needing this room. Anyway, as I was saying, the first thing I realized after I began working here, there is no dignity in death. No matter how much an undertaker tells you that your deceased loved one will be treated with dignity and respect, I rapidly learned there is no such thing. It’s not that they are lying to you. It’s that the business of death is messy and clinical. The dead are laid out naked on a shiny metal table, their neck elevated on a wooden block. Depending on the family’s wishes, they are either placed in a giant oven, baked to very well done, or a tube is stuck into a femoral artery and all their bodily fluids are drained out and replaced with embalming fluid. Don’t even ask me about the horrors if rigor mortis has set in.

Now Mr. Absom, he’s an interesting story. Eighty-four, died in the arms of thirty-year-old Maggie Smith. Not his wife. Cliché, I know, but if you have to go, that’s the way to go. Scuttlebutt around town is he was quite the womanizer and no one, including his wife, was surprised by the manner he shuffled off his mortal coil. Deputy U.S. Marshal Michael Fraser, on the other hand, is the reason I’m running – okay hiding – for my life right now. How I became tangled up with Mike in all of this I’m not quite sure, I’m still trying to suss out that one.

To my current dilemma, I’m hiding from some really Scary Dudes. I figure that if I can stay hidden here until seven thirty when Jim Johnson arrives to open up the funeral home, I might stand a chance. He’s the groundskeeper and handyman. He comes in, turns on all the lights, starts the heat or air conditioning and begins to tidy up before everyone else gets here around eight thirty. If I can remain undetected until he arrives, I may make it out of here, still breathing.

Generally, I’d say I could take care of myself. I’m a first degree black belt in Kendo. Recently, to work off the stress of divorce, financial insecurity, and my sexual frustration, I’ve become a hardcore kickboxer. However, my instincts tell me Scary Dudes are serious. Considering everything that has transpired in the last few days, I’m subscribing to the safety in numbers philosophy – unless the other team is armed, then no one is safe. I think it must be about six, maybe even six thirty, now. With all that’s happened, I’ve lost track of time, but I bet I have been hiding here for over an hour. There is no clock in the room, it’s not like the occupants have any pressing need for one. I don’t have a watch and my cell phone is in my purse. My purse, unfortunately, is in my car.

My car, a cute little black and yellow Mini Cooper, is in a ditch about two miles from here. I had to leave it there after being deliberately run off the road by Scary Dudes in their big, black Cadillac Escalade. In my haste to get away, I left my bag under the driver’s seat. I’m hoping they were distracted enough chasing after me that they didn’t think to steal it. It’s a bitch having to cancel all those credit cards and get a new driver’s license. Although, I could use a new picture and maybe I could change my name back while I was at the DMV. There’s always a bright side, right?

Luckily, I managed to grab my car keys, which also had the keys to the funeral home on the ring. I was on my way here anyway, so I continued on foot, running through the trees, between houses, avoiding street lights. A regular secret agent. I was congratulating myself on my stealth and physical fitness because I arrived at the funeral home in what I believed was record time.

That was until I turned the corner, breathless and sweaty and saw the Escalade in the parking lot, lights off, engine running. That was ominous. They appeared to be waiting for something or someone. In case it was me, I decided sneaking in would be prudent. The back door to the funeral home is not visible from the parking lot or the street. It’s tucked away between the garage and tall lilac hedges. The perfect location for bringing in the dead without drawing attention, also, not a bad way for a regular Ninja Girl to sneak in without tipping off Scary Dudes.

Why does everyone want to be at the funeral home before dawn on a Monday morning? I doubted it was to see Mr. Absom. I knew why I was here. Late yesterday, I had an epiphany. A key piece of evidence, one that could end this whole nightmare, might be in Mike’s personal effects. What I couldn’t figure out was how Scary Dudes knew where I was going in the middle of the night. Had they been following me for a while without my notice? Were they somehow monitoring my conversations? Or, nightmare of nightmares, had I been betrayed by the only person I’ve trusted since Mike’s murder?

I’ve been pushing that thought out of my head for hours. However, it’s persistent and keeps coming back, like a wasp at a picnic. You know the one. It hangs out by your soda can. You swat it away, but it keeps coming back until you absently take a sip and get stung. I’m waiting for the stinger.

The only person I had confided in since Mike turned up dead, the only person who had seen me naked in months, the only person I have wanted to see me naked in months, is also the only person who knew where I was headed: Deputy U.S. Marshal Colby Marcus Jameson, III. I knew I was in trouble when he arrived on scene. Tall, mocha skinned, with vibrant green eyes, he hit me straight in the heart. Unexpected, unnerving and unavoidable, every cell in my body said he was different, special. Before he even spoke a word, his eyes met mine and I knew. I knew he was that soul connection we are all looking for and if I wasn’t so busy running from Scary Dudes, I’d be running from him at breakneck speed. The last thing my fragile heart needed was that type of entanglement.

Of course, all that could have been the adrenaline talking, because Colby was first through the door after I discovered Mike’s body. Without a word, he gestured for me to be still and quiet while he assessed the situation. He took control, offered comfort and looked down my shirt, all without missing a beat. He was all that stood between me and the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm me. Before the day was out, he had saved my life, twice. Last night when inspiration hit, he had been my first and only call.

“Colby, it’s me. Where are you?”

He answered with his unmistakable deep growl of a voice. “On a stakeout with the State LEOS. Everything okay?”

“I’ve been going over and over the last night I was with Mike…Marshal Fraser. I think we missed something. I remembered he kept a flash drive on his keychain, but I don’t think it was there that last night. We were at my apartment so we could go over the funeral service in detail. He brought take-out…”

“TJ,” he interrupted. “A little busy here…”

“Right…right. The flash drive, you didn’t find one when you went through his stuff, did you?” There was a beat, and I imagined him mentally taking an inventory.

“No. You think it’s important?”

“I do. Nothing concrete, simply a nagging feeling, I’m not even sure why I remembered it.”

“Women’s intuition?” he teased.

“Really? Mocking me?” I said, my voice unnaturally high. “I’ve been threatened, shot at, used as an operative, a decoy and the man I was sipping wine with two days ago is dead. And you want to mock me?!” I was little on edge.

“Sorry TJ. I didn’t mean anything. Breathe,” he added gently, “I was trying to lighten the mood. Clearly, I failed.”

“I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge.” To his credit, he remained silent. “I think I should look through his stuff at the funeral home, just to double-check. They have it locked down but no one has picked it up yet. Shouldn’t the Marshals have it?”

“Jurisdiction issues, it gets ugly. No one wants to touch it when it might be a dirty cop.”

“I don’t believe he is…was dirty. I don’t,” I said adamantly. I fought back tears as I thought of my last moments with Mike.

“I know,” he said in a tone that indicated he really did know. “Look, as soon as I can get away, I’ll pick you up and we’ll check it out okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed and he disconnected. I probably should have waited for him, but after lying in bed and staring up at the night sky for hours, I made the fateful decision to get up and head here. Realistically, how could he have known? He couldn’t have tipped anyone off…could he?

I refuse to believe he’d do anything like that. Of course, my judgment in regards to men could be compromised. What did I know? Maybe Mike had been a dirty cop. Maybe my Soon-To-Be-Ex wasn’t gay. Maybe Colby was not to be trusted. Then again, maybe I’m a little jumpy because of everything that’s happened over the last month. Month? It felt like a year.

Maybe I should start at the beginning. When my life began to unravel…

More to come…