Chapter Text
Feb 26, 2016 – the day after the 10th republican debate
The giant turtle beckoned to him, claws outstretched welcomingly. “You belong here, with us,” she seemed to say. “Join the turtle family. You will be loved.”
“I can’t,” he replied. “I don’t have a shell. I wouldn’t fit in.”
“But you do have a shell.”
He craned his neck to look behind, but found it was impossible. He looked down and saw a soft brown tummy and four sturdy little legs.
“It’s really true! I am a turtle after all! Finally, I can be accepted and loved! No more –“
BANG BANG BANG. The dream faded away. BANG BANG BANG. “Wake up Jeb!” screeched his mother from outside his door. “You lousy good-for-nothing old man! Get up, Ben Carson’s been murdered!”
“Mmmmph,” said Jeb!. He didn’t want to get up. It was so nice to be able to sleep in again, no longer campaigning from county to county. But Mother was calling. “All right, I’m up!” he yelled. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stepped onto the hardwood floor, shivering from the cold. Reaching onto his bedside table, he tightly gripped his favorite toy turtle, whom he had nicknamed “Junior Jeb.” Junior Jeb was good at being who he was destined to be. Junior Jeb was good at being a toy turtle. If only Jeb! himself was better at being a Bush.
Wait a second. Had his mother said Ben Carson was dead?
Jeb fumbled for his phone, and it fell off the table. He tried to catch it but hit his head on the edge – then tripped over his charger. Mildly cursing, he navigated to the news.
There was the headline – “Infamous Zodiac Killer Strikes Again: Ben Carson Dead.” The Zodiac Killer? Wasn’t that a… 1970s thing? He clicked on the article.
Ben Carson was found dead outside of a hotel this morning, 2/26/16, shot at least five times in the chest and head. An autopsy is currently underway, but it is estimated his death took place at around 3:30 this morning. A typed note was found on his person and is still in police custody but we have been informed that it claims this is the work of the so-called notorious “Zodiac Killer” who killed at least seven people in Northern California in the 1960s and 1970s. Whether or not this claim is true has yet to be verified…
Jeb sat back down on the bed. How could this be? A fabled serial killer, back in action? Why had he killed Ben Carson, of all people?
Maybe Bernie would know.
With newfound initiative, Jeb got back up, changed from his turtle pajamas into a t-shirt and jeans (thank god for no more collared shirts), took a deep breath, and opened his door. No one in the hallway. Down the stairs. Through the kitchen to reach the mudroom. George Senior and Junior were both sitting at the kitchen table, reading two copies of the same newspaper. They didn’t acknowledge him as he walked by, but he was used to being given no attention. And today that was a good thing.
There wasn’t enough room in the garage for his car, so it was parked out front. As he walked around the house, he stared up at its big white walls. He looked forward to moving out and going back to Florida, but for the moment his mother wanted him to be here, in Texas. What a miserable state.
Getting into his car, he pulled out his phone and turned off his location. It wouldn’t do for his mother to know where he was going.
After a couple tries getting his minivan to start, Jeb was on the road. His destination was 15 minutes away, at the third gas station on this road. When he got there, he parked and reached into the glove box for his bag of quarters. He dashed from the car to the telephone booth, hiding his face. It wouldn’t do for people to recognize him here. He liked this particular phone booth because of its heavily frosted glass. He wouldn’t usually be here, but the cheap flip phone he’d been using in the past had broken a few weeks ago, so he was reduced to using public amenities such as this until he could surreptitiously acquire a new one.
He dialed Bernie’s number. He knew it by heart, of course. The phone rang for a while before it was picked up.
“Hello? Who is this?” Jeb let out a deep sigh of relief at the sound of the familiar gruff, accented voice. Maybe now he’d get some answers.
“It’s me. It’s Jeb,” he said.
“Honn-ey!” Bernie hollered. “Its goohd to hea from yoo. What is goin on.”
“Did you hear that Ben Carson died?”
“Yea! Everybody’s sayin it’s his fault! Because he said he wanted somebody to attack him at last night’s debate.”
“Oh. I- I didn’t watch.” Jeb had not found the capacity within himself to watch another shouting match between grumpy old men. He was just glad he wasn’t part of the shenanigans anymore.
“Hah! Well! Nobody mentioned him so he didn’t get to talk. So he said he wanted to be attacked. Be careful what ya wish for, huh?” He laughed. “Hey, baby, I need to talk to ya in person. Could you get to South Carolina by 2?”
“No, I don’t think I can…”
“Then skype me later, huh? Look boo I gotta go make a speech or somethin, I don’t know. And all these young people want pictures. Okay?”
“Oh, ok, I—“ Bernie had hung up. “Love you…” he finished despondently.