Chapter 5 Carrie's Meltdown

After about a week, March Madness was absolutely living up to its codename. Carrie and her three roommates were absolutely madder than a group of March hares locked into laboratory cages and fed a non-stop diet of raw cocaine. The hardware store had never been more crowded in its entire history, as even family members outside the loop of the operation got the word that Carrie was putting on a 24/7 comedy show, and everyone was constantly dropping by to listen in to her madcaps.

I would have been laughing hard too except my unease in the pit of my stomach wasn't going away. If anything, that little voice in the back of my head was whispering to me louder telling me things that I already knew but didn't really want to hear.

My worst fear related to our doping program on Carrie, using that admittedly extremely tainted amphetamine drug. It had been clear since the start that Walt had pretty much ignored my instructions about how this was to be used from the very start. Being of the 'more is better' school of thought, he was probably adding it to everything of hers that he could get his hands on - and with massive doses. Carrie and her companions hadn't slept in over four days now and from the sound of things they were too wired even to sit down. You only had to randomly listen in on their deluded conversations now to know that their brains were now seriously misfiring and that the hallucinations from sleep deprivation were just going to make things even worse very soon.

I'd already told Walt twice to stop using that stuff on her and each time I'd get some mumbled excuse as to why it couldn't be done. Finally I'd given up and flat out ordered him to stop using it. Walt refused, saying he had other orders to continue to increase the dosage and pretty much after that ignored me and anything else that I had to say.

On the positive side of things, I was also become much better acquainted with the lovely widow Marsha. She improved on my eyes with every meeting and I began to look forward to seeing her short (and top heavy) form bouncing down the aisle towards my office, and also the rear view of her when she left with her long ponytail nearly brushing against her delightful rounded ass. She was only a Wilde by marriage but she seemed extremely loyal and dedicated to the family and this operation. She would stop by each morning for instructions and then drop by the hardware store each evening to report back and offer any useful observations. Marsha's list of virtuous qualities seemed to grow by the day and I began to wonder why she hadn't been snatched up by someone and remarried.

One of her finest cardinal virtues, her lovely petite looks and large breasts notwithstanding, seemed to be her cooking skills. Having been a long time Army bachelor mostly getting my meals in either a military chow hall or the NCO's Club, I had never gained much in the way of practical cooking skills. Marsha, after catching me in flagrante with a Stouffer's Hungry-Man frozen dinner late one night in the hardware store, took it upon herself to start providing me with home-cooked food she happily delivered to me on a nightly basis, complete with dessert ... other than the eye candy. Nom nom!

If there was a bad side to this woman yet, I hadn't found it. Still it was extremely disconcerting the way she would look at me sometimes ... it still gave my stomach the flutters. Had to be my nerves ... I was going to need a bit of a rest after this escapade was finished.

Before long, any resemblance of usefulness Carrie might have had as a government whistle-blower was now long gone. In fact, between her rampant obvious madness and Emily's flawless imitations, there was not a single government or law enforcement official now willing to take her direct calls. A few organizations, such as the Secret Service, now had her phone number blocked entirely. This ought to have been a signal to her, but if anything this just made her even madder and she'd now just call the main switchboards and 911 emergency exchanges to rant at whomever answered the phone.

It became apparent quite early on that no matter how wild of a story we would concoct to give Emile for her faked calls, Carrie's real ones were become even better, stranger and wilder. After the fourth day, we just told Emile to quit. It was becoming an unnecessary risk - the real Carrie was doing just fine without our help.

She complained in her unique and highly deranged patter to anyone who would listen even for a few moments about cattle mutilations at the farm next door (conducted in person by both Bush Presidents), black helicopters stealing her thoughts, mystery trains running day and night in deep tunnels underneath her house, mysterious Men in Black that all had Ronald Reagan's face (and a thirst for human blood), vampires and werewolves disguised as DEA and FBI agents (probably also with a thirst for human blood) trying to claw their way into her cabin at night, or the secret NSA microwave experiments that kept her from sleeping.

All highly amusing and even hysterically funny, until Carrie crossed the line late into day six of her ordeal and phoned the national Secret Service main switchboard to accuse President Bush of abducting her newborn baby, murdering her dog, cattle rustling, and stealing her morning newspaper, etc ... and loudly, clearly and directly telling the befuddled operator in excruciating detail about the forty-seven ways she was going to go Buffy on him and kill his soulless bloodsucking vampire ass.

Oh Shit.

I ran, not walked, over to Joe's to tell him that I was pulling the plug on the entire operation. NOW. The First Amendment allows you say millions of crazy and insane things, but blatantly threatening the life of the President isn't one of them. It doesn't matter if you don't personally like the guy (I had real no opinion either way), but threatening to 'pig-fuck' the guy with a sawed off shotgun is just asking for trouble - seriously BAD trouble. That magic invisible line had most definitely been crossed and sooner or later now - very likely sooner - fed's were going to show up on our doorstep. Maybe even lots of them ... and they weren't going to be in a good mood.

Joe didn't quite see it my way. As far as he (and the Elders) was concerned, the further she melted down, the better. Having the FBI or Secret Service possibly show up to haul her away was inconvenient, but an entirely acceptable solution to the problem. "Don't be a wuss!" Joe told me repeatedly.

Now that the gauntlets were thrown, I took the time to rant about Walt, and how his indiscriminate doping of Carrie had now made her blatantly and dangerously unstable. I ordered Joe to get Walt under control and cancel the drugging part of the plan, if nothing else. He pointedly refused, muttering about his nephew going all weak and wussy on him.

I muttered back something in return about Mickey Mantle taking his weak sauce heater 500 yards over the center field flagpole while Joe was bawling on the pitchers mound like a little schoolgirl.

Things went downhill from there.

We disagreed; loudly, violently and all over the place. I smashed a beer pint glass (half full) onto the floor and stomped out, loudly washing my hands of the entire situation. Then I went straight over to Rollie's office at the phone company and returned his laptop, and left him with a few choice words behind closed doors.

"Rollie, I don't care what your instructions are from the bozos up on high, but as far as I am concerned this operation is over and done. Fini. If you have even half of the sense that God gave a lamprey, or even an US Marine, you'd wash your hands of this matter fast too!"

"No can do, Dan. I've got strict instructions, confirmed and updated just a few minutes ago. The operation stays running 'as-is' until either someone hauls her off in a straitjacket to a padded room or she achieves room temperature status. It's what the Elders want." He added in a more subdued tone to suggest that he wasn't an entirely happy camper with these new marching orders. Then in case I hadn't gotten the hint, he sadly shook his head and rolled his eyes a bit.

"Fine then. I'm done with this shit though. This is going to go bad ... real bad, and fast. I've just got that feeling about this and after twenty years in the Army dealing with general officers and other morons, I've learned to trust my gut instinct. We don't want any part of what's coming and we definitely don't want to be anywhere near the splash this is going to make when this all goes bad - which it will, soon. The fed's are coming ... probably they're already on their way here with real black helicopters and some genuine men in black with lots of guns and a willingness to use them. Do you think even for a moment that Carrie is going to take a look at them and invite them all in for tea? Not a bloody chance. Someone is going to hurt ... probably badly. Maybe it will only be Carrie, but maybe they'll take a few fed's down with them ... or even worse, maybe a few of us get hurt in the process That's attention the Elders should never want to risk having under any circumstances."

Rollie muttered a few platitudes and suggested that "things would probably work out ... they usually do." I just shook my head and turned for the door, but offered him one last piece of useful advice to either take or ignore.

"Hope for the best, but plan for the worst, Rollie. If I were you, I'd waste no time ripping out at least that Bell line wiretap on Carrie. The odds are this is one of the first things that the fed's will want to do themselves once they arrive and it could look awful embarrassing to everyone if they find a bug already in place at the switching station. Your FM wireless bug under the cabin ought to be fairly safe. At worst, that one can always be blamed off on teenagers wanting to listen to the hippies fucking. Up to you, Rollie, but it's the first thing that I'd do if I were in your shoes. There's a shit storm coming, so get your high waders on and your ducks in a row."

With my conscience now mostly clean, I started to head back towards home but somehow found myself taking a long detour heading towards Carrie's hilltop cabin, which used to be my dad's old place before he retired and was Ned's and mine childhood home. It was about a thirty minute walk up and down a couple of hills and I could have driven over there in about five minutes but I wanted to use the time to think of something to say that wouldn't get my head blown off. I never did find the exact right words to say, but I did find a few things that ought to be said that were true and heartfelt.

At the end of her dirt driveway down at the bottom of the hill a pair of Wilde retainers that I didn't recognize them as being of any of the direct families, were lurking with their dark suits and sunglasses in the rental black Yukon SUV, trying to look vaguely official and menacing. We'd given them the operation nicknames of Bert and Ernie - and it fit. One short, one tall, both with uncertain sexual preferences, and not a full set of brains between the two of them. I waved and smiled at them and headed up the driveway.

I considered knocking on Carrie's door, but settled for just stopping at the bottom of the steps to the front porch and shouted to let them know I was outside. Staring down the barrel of a shotgun being held by a seriously drug addled and probably mentally insane woman was undoubtedly the bravest thing I ever had to do in my entire life. The door didn't open at first, but I didn't really need to see her face for what I had to say anyway.

"Carrie, this is your brother-in-law Dan, Ned's older brother. We've only briefly met a few times and I know we're all having a bit of a family disagreement right now, but I've got something important to say anyway." Deep breath ... think happy thoughts ... try not to get shot.

"Carrie, please stop the drug use and the heavy drinking. It's not healthy for you right now. Things are starting to get weird around here ... bad things might soon be happening. It's just not safe here anymore. You should try to leave - get away - NOW, while you can, with your friends.

Somewhere else where you could be safe, where the voices can't find you for awhile. Carrie, please just GO, get away from here and leave while you can."

My message delivered, I was about to leave when the door opened up in front of me just enough to see the barrel of a shotgun, my father's old Remington I think (he'd passed it on Ned after I'd given dad a new Mossburg 500 Persuader for Christmas a few years ago). Carrie's voice spoke weakly and in a dreamy sort of voice but with an edge of determination, and more than a touch of utter madness.

"I can't go ... I belong here and the voices are telling me to stay. The Bad Men are coming here, soon. Dubya is going to be with them ... bloodsuckers, all of them. They want me and the others, to catch us if we fall asleep, but we're too smart for them. They're coming ... but we're waiting for them. We're ready for them and we're going to fight them all off and win. We'll put stakes in their hearts and turn them all to dust ... and then we'll have some cake. I'd rather have some pie instead but we don't have any ... maybe Marsha can make us one. You'd better go - it's not safe around here and it's going to be dark soon and the Bad Things might come. Tell Ned that I miss him sometimes ... I'm sorry it didn't work out."

With that the firearm was withdrawn back into the house and the door closed. I turned around and walked so fast down the drive that it was nearly a run. Dignity be damned. Carrie had had a final lucid moment at the end, of sorts, but the die was pretty much cast. She and her friends were pretty much past reasonable discussion now and the next person to knock on her door was probably going to eat a load of buckshot ... and I didn't want to be anywhere nearby when it happened. I scurried on home to wait for the inevitable knock on the door or phone call.

Miraculously nothing happened that entire long dark night, but our luck wasn't going to last much longer.

Late the next morning about half past ten, I received the anticipated phone call. There was a visitor at the Sheriff's office who would very much like to speak with me. Was I available - immediately if not sooner? Unfortunately, yes. I said I'd be right on my way and would hop in my truck and could be there in about five minutes. I guess I was looking forward to getting the drama part done and over with so things around here could start getting back to normal. Besides, I just couldn't leave town for a vacation rest until everything was over with and the last dirt had been shoveled on the graves. Hopefully, one of them wouldn't be mine.

I'd heard that the Sheriff's office had been running a pool anyway to see which branch of the fed's showed up to deal with Carrie first. The favorites accordingly to the list on one of their whiteboards ran in the order of, DEA, FBI, Secret Service, some branch of Military Intelligence (yes, it really is an oxymoron), CIA and No Such Agency (NSA). After Carrie's meltdown yesterday, the smart money all moved to Secret Service, and indeed that was the winner.

The Treasury Agent sent to deal with Carrie, via me, was a delicious long drink of a thing, with shoulder top length salon styled honey-blonde hair in a short perky ponytail and had the biggest bluest eyes I'd ever seen. She was probably just a bit younger than me, probably around her mid-thirties I guessed. She was at least five foot-ten in her stocking feet and a tad smaller in the bust than my normal preference, but for her I was willing to make exceptions. She was wearing sensible but expensive looking shoes that coordinated well with her tailored professional suit, but I thought she'd look absolutely stunning in high heels ... and not much else. No current wedding rings, but I thought there was a slight hint on her finger from where one might have been a few years ago. I'm absolutely certain that she received regular and frequent marriage invitations and undoubtedly someone had proposed to her in at least the last hour or so. If not, I'd certainly consider throwing my hat into that ring, if I could get the swelling in the front of my pants to go down enough to avoid being too embarrassed while I did it.

The lovely Secret Service Agent, a Ms. Lindsey Wallace according to her card, wasted little time getting down to brass tacks and started to grill me right away. If it got me more quality time looking into her deep baby blues, I was more than willing to be grilled well-done and served up on any sort of platter she chose.

"In my limited investigations so far since I arrived in Wildewood County, nearly everyone I've questioned regarding the behavior and character of Mrs. Carrie Lee Wilde, has directed me to speak with you instead. Why is this so? The records indicate that a certain Nelson Nellis Wilde is in fact her husband, and the house she is currently living in is their registered residence." The obvious first question, and I was mentally prepared for it. I gave a slightly embellished sigh, and got down to facts.

"Ned, my younger brother, is indeed still technically married to Carrie, and her residence still is their former marital home - previously owned by our father Jefferson Wilde before his retirement. Ned and Carrie have been separated for at least four months now and I understand that Ned has filed for a Divorce at the County Courthouse in Whiston, but I couldn't give the exact filing date ... probably sometime about three months ago. As for my relationship with my brother, we are fair close and I have been his primary anchor in this troublesome time for him. If you have met my brother Ned (I got a faint nod) you can tell that he is a rather ... uncomplicated sort of man. Not intellectually challenged mind you, but he doesn't quite soar with the eagles either. He likes his life relatively simple and without a lot of drama. He works greeting customers at our family hardware store and he has had no interaction with Carrie since their separation to the best of my knowledge."

More nodding from the heavenly Agent. I found out later that when she met Ned just a little while ago, she had caught him on one of his smoke breaks puffing on a joint behind the hardware store. Fortunately she had little interest in Ned's trivial drug usage and it didn't take her long apparently to discern that he would be of little helpfulness in her investigation of his ex. Fortunately, she could now learn everything she needed to know from me.

"I have been hearing a lot of unsettling things about my former sister-in-law since my return home about six months ago. It is readily apparent that Carrie has a significant drug dependency problem and possibly other psychological issues as well. In my non-medical opinion she is currently quite deranged and is largely unable to distinguish fantasy from reality. She's not a particularly bad person under normal conditions, but in her current fragile mental state she is very likely a danger to herself and everyone around her." All true and sincerely spoken. Now comes the tricky part...

"Everyone locally has been very disturbed by the recent escalation of her bizarre behavior and a great many people have been concerned enough to speak with me about this matter personally over the last few weeks. Most folks believe her to be severely delusional and she should be treated as such. I saw this myself yesterday when I went to her house to speak with her." The Sheriff, caught by surprise at this news, just about fell out of his chair onto his oversized well-padded ass. Like many law enforcement officials, he believed that a little truth can be a very dangerous thing, and is normally to be avoided at all costs. I'm not a big admirer of our Sheriff and consider him to be a rather large and overfed hitherto undiscovered species of weasel.

"She was not lucid, but she did make clear allusions to the fact that she was hearing voices that were telling her to 'do things'. I don't think she has slept in days, maybe in over a week. She's totally paranoid and believes that Bad People are coming for her ... soon. She probably thinks everyone is an evil undead creature trying to trick her to get close enough to kill her. You will not be able to reason with her. If you try to approach her using force or scare her in any way she will attack back hard. She has my father's old shotgun, I know for certain, and I'd heard vague rumors earlier in the week that several of her friends in there with her might possibly have unregistered weapons and/or explosives with them in the cabin. I strongly advise against any direct approach to her at this time. If it was my decision, I'd cordon off her cabin - quarantine them to cut off their drug and alcohol supply and let them crash afterwards due to utter exhaustion. Then take them into custody for a psych exam while they're asleep. It's the only way I can think of that would settle the situation without anyone getting hurt."

The Sheriff wasn't particular pleased with my testimony, and in fact he seemed to have been offering the lovely Ms. Wallace the exact opposite advice. Mostly likely he'd been given some sort of orders to resolve the situation fast, and he was a bit scared of having Carrie alive, and under professional medication and interrogation.

I was now fairly certain that Carrie didn't know a single real family secret of any consequence - the Sheriff was apparently reluctant to take that chance. He kept assuring his government guest that his Deputies and his Special Response Unit team were more than capable of bringing Carrie in for questioning, by force if necessary.

The delightful Ms. Wallace had a few other minor questions for me to round off a few corners of my statement, but she seemed fairly pleased with what I had told her. I relaxed a bit and prepared myself to sidle away out of there at the earliest opportunity but was caught flat footed when she took my arm and asked if I would come with her so that she could speak with Carrie herself.

Oh fuck. I couldn't say no, but I certainly didn't want to say yes. I split the difference and nodded my head. The Sheriff gave me a squinty-eyed look that more than hinted that I was on his shit list. Like I cared. I'd stared down idiotic Colonels and Generals in my day and this particular short and overweight sack of pathetic shit couldn't have given an ulcer to a lowly two-striper on permanent KP duty. The Sheriff wasn't technically family, his parents hadn't moved to the Wildewood until the Great Depression ... and his reelection this coming November was far from an automatic slam-dunk. No one particularly liked him, or his band of ex-military shooters that he hired for his SRU SWAT team, but he (usually) obeyed family orders and did what he was told to do.

When we left his office he started to loudly give orders for everyone to saddle up and get the SRU team over to Carrie's ... yesterday. The ass was determined to make this a full fledged ratfuck after all, if he had to do it all by himself with every else kicking and screaming in his wake.

I followed the magnificent Ms. Wallace out to her car, a black Chevy Tahoe SUV with dark tinted windows and government plates. I muttered something about that I thought feds mostly drove GMC Yukons.

"Not that I've seen," she replied. "Oh, and you can call me Lindsey." My heart about stopped and my mind kept mentally undressing her for the entire short drive over to Carrie's. My crotch liked very much what my brain was fantasizing and I think (but can't prove) I caught her sneaking an appraising peak at my rather swollen manhood. I might be rather reserved around women, but some parts of me have absolutely nothing to be humble about.

When we got to Carrie's we weren't alone. Our two family meterosexual faux feds in black I'd nicknamed Bert and Ernie were both sitting in their black Yukon pretending to be sinister until they got a look at a real fed, who had much more practice at pulling the look off, and she demonstrated the proper way to do it. My cock got even harder if possible.

I turned my head up to closely examine the headboard of the Tahoe, trying to pretend very fervently and sincerely that none of this was happening. Maybe if I was lucky I'd find out that this was all just a bad dream and I'd wake up to find myself back in Iraq, where I'd be safe. They got the hint fast and skedaddled - even faster, before the lovely Lindsey could get out of her Tahoe to ask them for their ID's. She gave me a quizzical look and I just shrugged.

"FBI? DEA maybe? No idea. Been lots of weird things going on around here lately." This was don't ask - don't tell at its best. If the pair of those doofusses had any sense at all they wouldn't stop the car again until it was back at the rental place in Springfield. I wished I was there with them.

We now had other new company to deal. Two Sheriff's patrol cars arrived with their sirens blazing and pulled into Carrie's driveway and parked about halfway up to the cabin. The sound of more sirens in the distance indicated that others, including the SRU team were also on their way.

Lindsey gritted her teeth and muttered something about trigger happy local yahoos without a speck of common sense. I couldn't have agreed more. I got out of the car and gave my forehead a few token bangs against the SUV's dark tinted glass. She didn't blame me - it does feel so much better after you stop.

We put our heads together for a few minutes to consult, but agreed the situation was probably far too late now to defuse, especially now that the SRU team, along with the Sheriff, had now arrived. Cars full of Deputies and every busybody in the County were now arriving by the moment. The Sheriff, his chest puffed out like a bull gorilla and a .38 Chief's Special revolver in hand, decided it was good and time to get the circus show started. He had a miscreant to apprehend, and he wanted Carrie in custody to gift-wrap for the Secret Service even if he had to fill her (and everyone else in the house) full of holes like Swiss cheese to do it!

The Sheriff gave some final instructions to his SRU team, probably involving orders for them to shoot to kill - no live witnesses, and they started to set their sniper teams up. He then gave his Under-Sheriff a poke with his .38 revolver and directed him to "Get yoor ass up to that there door and haul the bitch out here by her ears if yah has to. That's a good fellah!"

The Under-Sheriff was a decent guy about my age named Oliver and a much closer direct family member than the Sheriff. He'd done six years in the Marine Corps including two tours in the Big Sandbox right after Gulf War I. That made him ok in my book. Supposedly the Sheriff couldn't stand him, but that only improved my opinion of the guy.

Now I had already warned Lindsey and the Sheriff both that Carrie was in no mood to parley with, and that the next face she saw would likely get a double-barrel of buckshot. Well, that is pretty much what happened next, really to no ones great surprise. Oliver walked up the three porch steps to the door and was greeted by a blast of both barrels of double-O buckshot right straight through the front door before he could even knock on it. Sure he had a protective vest on, but dad's shotgun (possibly sawed off just a wee bit short of the legal limit) blasted a few pellets both high and low that the vest couldn't protect against.

Oliver flew backwards like a felled tree in a cloud of blood and gunpowder and didn't move. I saw the entire thing happen as if it were occurring in slow motion. I had known what was going to happen but I had been powerless to do anything about it.

"That murdering bastard..." I said, glaring at the Sheriff, who was now directing his men to all open fire and was emptying his own revolver at the house with great enthusiasm and malicious glee. Lindsey concurred.

"What a total ratfuck!" she muttered, looking at me with disbelief. Damn she was beautiful when she was pissed off! At least things couldn't possibly get any worse now, I thought.

As usual, I was dead wrong. One of the junior Deputies, a nice young kid named Greg Waller Wylde came up to me to deliver an urgent message.

"Joe says Marsha called out "Christmas" late yesterday afternoon right after your visit to Carrie. We've checked at her house and she hasn't been home since yesterday. We think Carrie's got her still trapped inside the house!"