Helen and Rose Masters sat in the living room of their Freedom Lane home in New Haven, Connecticut. Rose kept busy sewing a pair of their adoptive son Da’Quarius’ pants while Helen flipped through the channels on the TV. The phone rang, and Rose leaned over to check the Caller ID.
“It’s that number again,” Rose said. Her gray roots were showing at the base of her red-dyed hair. “They’ve been calling for days now. I’m afraid to pick it up. Do we owe anyone money?”
“How should I know?” Helen asked. “You’re the one that pays all the damn bills.”
“What if it’s someone trying to steal our identities?” Rose asked, looking worried.
Helen let the TV settle on a show about an old lady hoarding stuffed wildlife in her house and muted it. “Give me the phone,” she said, reaching a chubby hand towards her wife. “I’ll put an end to this.”
Rose quickly handed Helen the phone. Helen answered it and turned the volume all the way up so she could here. It was so loud that Rose also heard the woman on the other end. “Hello?” Helen asked, surly.
“Hello,” the woman on the other end said. “My name is Carol. Is Rose Masters there?”
“She’s not here, Carol,” Helen said. “May I take a message?”
“No,” Carol said. “I’ll try again later.”
“You call back and I’m going to call the damn cops,” Helen said.
“Excuse me?!” Carol exclaimed.
“You heard me,” Helen said. “I don’t trust someone who calls and won’t leave a message. I have your number on my phone, and I won’t think twice about calling the feds on your ass.”
“Ma’am,” Carol said. “We’re just looking for donations…”
“I don’t buy it,” Helen said. “Do you know who you called? Rose is in Witness Relocation. Do you have any idea who the Lockerbie Bomber is? Do you?!”
“No, Ma’am,” Carold said. “I don’t.”
“Before your time, eh?” Helen asked. “Let me tell you something. He was running wild, bombing the shit out of Europe and whatnot. I was there. I saw the children crying for their dead mothers as they collected their body parts from the streets. They don’t teach you that in school any more. It’s all autism awareness and diversity celebrations now. It breaks my damn heart.”
“The Lockerbie Bomber is behind bars because somebody had the balls to turn him into the Swedish FBI before he could kill again. They sent us here to live safely. His bomber friends are still looking for us. So you see why I’m skeptical when some woman calls us out of nowhere and refuses to leave a damn message. For all I know, you’re some Lockerbie Bomber groupie looking to ice the woman that put his ass away. You may want her dead, but I wish there were more people like Sandra in the world.”
“Sandra?” Carol asked. “I was calling for Rose Masters.”
“I’ve said too much,” Helen said. “We’re all in danger because of you.”
“Ma’am, I’m just…”
“Expect a call from Agent Daniels,” Helen said. “He’s our contact if anything suspicious goes down. He should be there within an hour with enough firepower to take down your entire operation for good. Goodbye, Carol.” Helen hung up the phone and turned the sound back on the TV.
“Lockerbie Bomber?” Rose asked.
“She won’t call back,” Helen said. “Trust me.”
Rose went back to sewing with a smile on her face as Helen watched the TV. “Didn’t he die?” she asked. “The Lockerbie Bomber?”
“How the hell should I know?” Helen replied. “I don’t even know what the hell a Lockerbie is.”
Freedom Lane Season 3
Created by Budgie Bigelow & BluntSharpness
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