Rural Route 8

by E. Raye Turonek

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Jackson Pierce is judge and jury over the people in Clarkston. Watch as they atone for their sins in this riveting suspense thriller.
Jackson Pierce, a discharged ex-military marine, is the new RCA at Clarkston, Michigan post office. He quickly moves up within the ranks, making a name for himself as the friendly neighborhood carrier. Delighted by the many gifts and
thanks he receives, Jackson is determined to continue to please the residents of this small town. How far will he go to right the wrongs he’s witnessed? The line between right and wrong becomes blurred when a traumatic memory is unearthed by the actions of an adulterous husband.

Release date: June 28, 2022

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

When he opened his eyes the next morning as a horn called for reveille, his pain rushed back instantly. “Ouch.” He moaned and groaned, trying to adjust his position on the uncomfortable cot back at his tent. It was no use. The morphine had worn off completely. Lance Corporal Pierce closed his eyes. There is no way I can get up to do anything today, he concluded. His injuries were not detrimental, nor did they require further medical care, so he was sent back to camp. Their medical unit had no room to house one whose injuries weren’t deemed serious. The Marines was no place for crybabies. Unless you were paralyzed or had a limb blown off, you were expected to report to duty.

The other dozen or so marines in his tent had already hopped out of bed and were busy rushing to get dressed in trousers and T-shirts to make it to formation within the allotted time.

“Come on, soldier. Lazy time is over,” Lance Corporal Flynn instructed, tapping the side of Jackson’s leg.

Jackson opened his eyes but kept silent.

“What’s up with your fancy pants, trader?”

“They cut up my Marine-issue trousers.”

“So, you left a marine and came back an army soldier?”

“I’ll always be Semper Fi.” He held up his closed fist for a fist bump. Lance Corporal Flynn gladly reciprocated.

“Ooh rah,” Flynn remarked.

“Ooh rah,” Jackson repeated with less enthusiasm. The aching he felt had taken its toll on him, keeping the marine in him from giving his all.

Lance Corporal Flynn could see plainly the pain his dear friend was still experiencing. “What are you gonna do? It’s time for reveille. Can you walk yet?”

“There’s no way I can get up. There’s just no way. Can you get Gunner Sergeant? Tell him I need to see him.”

“Sure thing, soldier,” he agreed before ducking out of the tent.

Within a few minutes Gunner Sergeant Anthony Taylor ducked his head inside. “How you feelin’, Lance Corporal Pierce?”

“Sergeant, there’s no way I can walk. I just can’t,” he admitted with sincerity in his eyes.

“I know. The doctor already informed me that you would be out of commission for a few days. But don’t worry. I’ve got your back like four flats on a Cadillac.”

Lance Corporal Pierce snickered lightly at the reference.

“You know I really appreciate what you did for me.”

“You’re my sergeant. I’d never throw you under the bus,” Pierce replied.

“The thing is, I’d already told them the truth of the matter, but you stuck to your guns, and for that I truly appreciate you. That being said, I’ve got something for you.”

Gunner Sergeant Taylor lifted him from the cot as if carrying a bride over the threshold, taking Lance Corporal Pierce to his personal tent. Cool air blowing from an air conditioner made the temperature in the tent perfectly relaxing. Gunner Sergeant Taylor had everything a marine could ask for packed inside his pop-up abode. He laid Jackson on top of the queen-size air mattress that sat atop two cots pushed together. Sergeant Taylor moved over to the television, grabbing a remote from the top of the digital versatile disc player. There was a stack of at least a hundred DVDs in a large green crate next to the television.

“Anytime you want me to change the movie, hit me on the radio. If you need to get up, hit me on the radio. Anything you need, I’m a button away. You looked out for me. Now I’m going to look out for you.” He handed the remote over to Lance Corporal Pierce, then removed a walkie talkie clipped at his waist, handing it over as well.

Now this is pimp, he thought as he graciously accepted the grand gesture. Gunner Sergeant Taylor walked out of his tent, but just as he promised, every time Jackson pushed that button, either Gunner Sergeant Taylor or another marine would come to assist him. They changed the movie for him, helped him to the restroom, and even brought him his chow or a meal ready to eat, MRE, of his choice at mealtime. Every night Sergeant Taylor would carry Lance Corporal Pierce back to his cot, and like clockwork, every morning he would carry him from his cot back to the queen-size air mattress in his own tent. After three days of wallowing in a lap of luxury, or as luxurious as it could get in a pop-up tent in the middle of the desert, Jackson was ready to walk without any assistance at all. Fortunately for Jackson, Gunner Sergeant Taylor had one more surprise in store for him.

Preparing himself for a full day’s work, Jackson gathered his thoughts. The other marines had already vacated for reveille. Yet, Jackson sat at the edge of his cot, pushing his feet around deep in the sand, allowing it to cover his toes completely. It was how he grounded himself whenever he felt uneasy.

“Are you ready to go home, Corporal?” Gunner Sergeant Taylor asked upon walking into the tent on his fourth day of rest.

“Seventeen days and I’m homeward bound,” Jackson replied as he lifted his head to address Sergeant Taylor.

“More like ninety minutes. Well, two hours at most,” he happily delivered the news.

“What are you talking about? I’m not set to leave for at least another couple of weeks.”

“I took care of it. Pulled a few strings and got you in for a left-advance party.”

“Seriously? You’re not pulling my leg? You know they can’t take much more.”

“Aww, man, I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you did. I’m glad you are okay. Now it’s time to go home and see your kid. Put it to the wife so you can relieve that stress without digging your feet into hot sand.”

“I can definitely dig that.” They furnished one another a fist bump.

By the time the C130 cargo plane landed at their main base in Al Jaber, Lance Corporal Pierce was waiting nearby with another twenty-one soldiers scheduled to head home. With his green duffle bag strapped over his shoulder, he loaded the plane, eager to make it to Jacksonville, North Carolina.

Jacksonville, North Carolina

“Woooo! I’m so happy to smell the Jacksonville air! I’m home!” Lance Corporal Jackson Pierce declared, yelling from his vehicle’s window as he cruised up Main Street in his 2001 white Ford Bronco. The breeze blowing in felt exhilarating on his skin. He had his window down, allowing rays of sun to beam onto his bald head. It was a different kind of heat, much gentler than temperatures he’d braved in the Middle East. Jackson turned up the volume on the radio, then glanced over at his passenger, Lance Corporal Flynn, inciting his enthusiasm.

“‘I want to love you! PYT! Pretty young thang,’” Jackson sang, tapping his hands on the steering wheel. His passenger smiled before commencing to groove along with the rhythm of the beat like his comrade.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home, Flynn?”

“Awww, man, I’ve got a date with a little hottie. I may not have a wife, but I do my thing. Quite frankly, they love me, man. I can’t keep ’em off,” he boasted.

“King Ding-a-ling, huh?”

“Nah. I’m coming in at about four inches, but four inches pumping at one hundred miles an hour can do some damage, if you know what I mean.”

The two of them laughed at the crude truth masked as a joke they were genuinely amused by.

Just then, Jackson turned his head, something to the left of him piquing his interest. “What the hell?” He yanked the steering wheel to the left. Screeching tires painted the asphalt as he pulled into the parking lot of a Motel 8.

Lance Corporal Flynn grabbed tight to the seat belt strapped across his chest. “What’s wrong, man?” Flynn inquired.

“That’s my wife’s car,” he admitted, voice reeking with devastation. His body burned with anger while his heart pounded in fear of what he was about to discover. Jackson felt sick to his stomach, yet rage wouldn’t allow the feeble release.

A gray Honda Accord was parked between two motel doors, one ajar.

“Naw, man. That’s not her car. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“It’s her car,” he assured Flynn. Jackson could tell by the I SUPPORT THE U.S. TROOPS bumper sticker pasted to her rear window. Not to mention, the numbers and letters on the license plate were a perfect match.

Without another word, Jackson parked next to her car, hopped out of his truck, then headed straight for a slightly open motel room door with a number 8 attached on its front. The three marines standing there in uniform were surprised to see him busting into their room, yet none of them said a word. Like Jackson, they knew he was of superior ranking. His uniform and patches told them so. They, on the other hand, were wet behind the ears in terms of service to the country. Each of them were no older than the age of 20. Even so, he had to be sure they were aware of his authority.

“Where’s the Asian bitch in the gray Honda?”

“She’s next door with my boy,” one of them spoke up.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No,” the same marine replied.

“I’m Lance Corporal Jackson Pierce, and that’s my wife, so you need to stay out of this.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier agreed, while the rest of them nodded in agreement.

Jackson turned, bolting from the room. He stood in front of the motel door with the brass metal number 9 screwed into it. Deep breaths he took did nothing to calm him. He reached for the knob to open the door, then turned it. To his dismay, it was secured. But Jackson had an advantage. His height allowed him to see through the high windows. When he stepped to the side to look inside, he could see the petite Asian American woman with the straight black hair, who had vowed to spend the rest of her life with him, slowly riding the stiffened member of a younger soldier and loving it. She had her head thrown back, long hair brushing across the top of her buttocks. The young marine’s hands squeezed her perky B-cup breasts. Jackson’s perky B-cup breasts.

A fuming Jackson’s eyes bulged from their sockets. “You bitch! Open this fucking door!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Lance Corporal Flynn watched from the passenger seat, in shock at the entire scene.

Sue, his wife, hopped off the startled marine, scooped up her short red dress, then ran to the bathroom to dress herself. Her companion had no idea what was going on. She had neglected to inform him of her marriage and child.

He hopped out of bed, then slid on his boxer briefs. “What the hell is going on here, Sue?”

His inquiry received no reply. Shattered pieces of glass from the upper window shot into the room once Jackson laid his fist into it. The smell of must and sex filled his nostrils.

“Open this fucking door, or I swear I’m going to kill you!” he demanded once more of the frightened marine backed against the wall.

The young marine hesitated, stepping forward. In a frozen panic, his eyes darted around the room as if questioning what to do. Beads of sweat formed across his brow. As far as Lance Corporal Pierce was concerned, his subordinate’s future was bleak. Standing at six foot three inches, furious and yelling through the window at the top of his lungs, he knew how intimidating his presence could be.

Jackson’s patience was no more. He forced his fist through the other window, shattering it as well, then commenced to ripping at a wooden plank that separated the two. There was nothing left to do but try to climb inside, which he most certainly did.

Color drained from the younger marine’s face. You’d think as pale as he’d become, he’d seen a ghost. It was more like his life flashing before his very own eyes. That in itself incited his approach toward the door. He was sure the enraged marine would get in somehow. But Jackson’s large frame wouldn’t allow it.

Once Jackson saw the soldier coming toward him, he moved over to the door. As soon as it opened in the slightest, he snapped his foot back, then launched it forward, smashing the heel of his combat boot to the door. The edge of it cracked the young soldier in his head, square between the eyes. Jackson came at him with full force, landing blows to his face as he staggered back farther into the room. As soon as he hit the floor, Jackson was on top of him, with his knees pressed firmly into the undersides of his biceps. Blow after blow crashed down on his face. Blood leaked from his mouth and nose. Jackson whaled on him until his arms felt like wet noodles.

His frightened and embarrassed adulterous wife came out of her hiding spot, attempting to sneak by them. Jackson could smell her stench. She’d even worn her favorite perfume for the now-battered stranger. Jackson sprung up, instantly grabbing her by the throat. Her almond-shaped eyes opened as wide as they could stretch as her body was lifted into the air then slammed down onto the bed. The choke slam sent her small frame bouncing off the double-sized mattress, then into the wall above the headboard. Her head left a dent in the wall, tearing through cheap orange and yellow striped wallpaper that covered it. It was the first time he had ever touched a woman out of anger. Fear of it not being the last prompted him to leave. Before he walked out, he lifted the thirty-two-inch television from the dresser, dropping it on the head of her lover.

It was the last time Jackson Pierce ever served in the Marines. That violent occurrence caused him to be discharged from duty. A fact that crushed him to his very core. His only victory was the dishonorable discharging of his wife’s lover for his part in the destruction of Jackson’s marriage.

One Month Later

Jackson Pierce stood over the sink, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He straightened the knot in his royal blue tie before smoothing it down, then took in a deep breath, buttoning the jacket of his black suit. He breathed deep, not because it was a tight fit but because he was nervous about an interview scheduled that day at the United States Postal Service. The sigh of relief he let out was long. He had moved on from his cheating wife, starting a new life in the small yuppie-filled town of Clarkston, Michigan. Unfortunately, his child was left to bear the brunt of his absence, the betrayal being something he had yet to allow himself to overcome. Jackson thought about his daughter every day. Yet, memories weren’t enough to force him back into her presence. Resentment and bitterness kept him from facing his adulterous wife. Besides, he couldn’t bear seeing her living with another man. He never wanted to see Sue’s face again. It was the same face he recognized when looking at his daughter. He wanted to fight for his child, but hate wouldn’t allow it. Even if he forced himself to get over it, he hadn’t the means to take care of his daughter alone. He was a soldier, not a single father. Jackson had been reduced to shoving a pill down his throat every day to balance his mood swings and PTSD.

He recalled the old Southern doctor addressing him as if he were a wild teenager when he handed him the prescription back in North Carolina.

“Now, son, it’s imperative that you mind that temper of yours. You remember what happened before. That’s why it’s important you take this medicine to keep you right. It’s not uncommon to have these issues, being a product of war and tragedy, among other things. Just do as I’ve instructed, and you’ll be fine. Just fine.” The old Southern doctor furnished him with a pat on the back, then sent him on his way.

His cordless phone rang, tearing him from the recollection. Jackson didn’t budge, allowing an answering machine to take the call. He refused to answer. Nothing was of more importance than his upcoming interview. He needed that job, or more so the insurance.

“You’ve reached the residence of Lance Corporal Pierce. I’m unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message, and I’ll be sure to return your call.” The answering machine beeped once his message ended, then a soft voice came through.

“Mr. Pierce, my name is Hilary Osborne, postmaster over at the Clarkston post office.”

Before she could conclude her reason for calling, Jackson snatched up the phone receiver sitting on a mahogany nightstand next to his queen-size bed, interrupting her message. “Hello. I’m here. Sorry, I almost missed your call.”

“Oh, hello. No worries,” she replied. “I just wanted to confirm your attendance for your interview at eleven.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll definitely be in attendance. I appreciate the opportunity to interview with you and look forward to it.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I look forward to interviewing you. I’ll see you at eleven.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you in about an hour. Good day, ma’am.” Jackson disconnected the call, then placed the receiver back atop its base.

Confidence overwhelmed him. I’ve got this job in the bag, he thought, knowing all too well his capabilities of charming women. Jackson wasn’t above using his good looks to get ahead if the situation warranted it. He looked around his small studio apartment, everything neatly in its place. Even his bed had already been made. Every morning he woke up, the first thing he’d do was fix his white sheets and camouflage green comforter. The structure he’d learned in the military was still at play, regardless of the chaos that brought his seemingly perfect life crashing down.

The discharged marine headed for the kitchen. It was time for his morning cup of joe, black, no sugar, no cream. He grabbed a coffee pot from its base, filled a small white mug nearly to the top, then placed the coffee pot back on its base. Jackson’s steady hands lifted the mug to his lips, taking small sips as he moved over to a window in the living room. He pulled at a string, lifting the white venetian blinds to stare out at pedestrians traveling Main Street. This is just the fresh start I need, he reassured himself. The town seemed pleasant, quiet, clean, and classy. Jackson was eager to establish new roots there in Clarkston, Michigan.

He grinned, happy to see a group of preschoolers marching down the sidewalk in a straight line, led by their teacher. His daughter, Mya, crossed his mind. Suddenly, a cloak of sadness washed over Jackson, prompting him to rush back to the bathroom. He placed his coffee mug down on the sink, opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed a bottle of pills labeled fluoxetine, a more common name being Prozac. When Jackson twisted off the cap, he peered inside. His antidepressant pills were dwindling, a fact that worried him terribly. Obtaining a position at the post office was imperative to his mental health. Veterans Affairs often did little to help those returning from battle. He needed the federal health insurance the post office would supply in order to see a primary care physician. The doctor he was seeing before discharge was something mandatory to assess his state of mind, or more so his aptness for the Marines. Unfortunately, their findings gave him the boot along with a bottle of medicine, as if to say good luck but good riddance. Jackson popped one of the blue and yellow capsules into his mouth, swallowing it without a sip of coffee. Instead of putting the bottle back inside the medicine cabinet, he recapped it, then shoved it into the pocket of his black dress pants.

Jackson pushed the mirror back into place, coaching himself. “You’ve got this. Everything is going to be just fine, Lance Corporal Pierce.”

At approximately 1100 hours, he was buzzing for assistance at the customer desk of Clarkston Post Office annex building, where interviews were held.

“Can I help you?” the statuesque chocolate 30-something woman with the naturally curly hair inquired.

Jackson thought she was beautiful to say the least. When she smiled, her teeth gleamed so bright he assumed they were fake. “What a beautiful smile you have,” he replied.

“Thank you! It’s in the genes. So, what can I help you with on this wonderful Wednesday morning, sir?”

“I’m scheduled for an interview with Hilary Osborne at eleven.”

She looked up at a clock above his head on the wall behind him. “Looks like you’re right on time, Mr. . . .” She waited for him to give his name.

“Pierce. I’m Lance Cor . . .” He paused, remembering he was no longer a soldier. My name is Jackson Pierce.”

“Hey, Jackson Pierce, I’m Evelyn. I’ll take you back to our postmaster’s office.” Evelyn walked around the counter, then pushed open the door, allowing him to walk through.

“Follow me,” she instructed.

You could tell she was a diligent worker. She walked fast and with purpose, leading him to a big office in the back of the building. Other clerks gawked at them, whispering among one another. “Is that a new clerk?” they wondered. They were all eager to gain a new employee. A shorthanded staff and increasing workload weighed heavily on them. The pressure to get the mail up in time, then over to the mail carriers, had become a daily daunting task. Clarkston Post Office didn’t have fancy machines to sort mail. Everything was done manually. So, the sight of Jackson was a welcome one.

She stopped in the hall between two doors, one being a training room, the other the postmaster’s office. “Have a seat, Jackson. Sign in on the clipboard on the table, and Hilary will be with you shortly.” Evelyn pointed him toward the training room.

“Thank you, Evelyn. Hopefully, you’ll be seeing me again soon.”

“I certainly hope so, Jackson. Good luck with your interview,” she replied before leaving his presence.

As Evelyn made her way out onto the workroom floor, Jackson stood in the doorway, peering out at operations. Evelyn was approached by another mail clerk,. . .