Serenity Engulfed

by Craig A. Hart

  Of course, Shelby had brought some of this on himself. He had always been the more laissez-faire parent, at least when it came to things like personal freedom and responsibility. Some of that he now regretted, wishing he had been a more involved father. It wasn’t that he’d intentionally been distant, but he had tried hard to allow Leslie to chart her own course. Now he wondered if perhaps that method had been a mistake.

  Finally, he could take it no more and picked up his phone. He decided to call Helen first, to see if Leslie had checked in. Helen, at least, would understand his concern. She might tease him a little, since he’d always made fun of her constant worrying, but it would be worth it to know Leslie was okay. And speaking to Helen would be better than making Leslie mad at him before she even arrived in town.

  He pressed Helen’s picture in his contacts list and waited while the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Shelby.”

  “Oh hey, Shel. Did Leslie make it okay?”

  There went that hope of reassurance. “No, she didn’t. I haven’t even heard from her.”

  Helen’s voice was immediately tight with fear. “Oh, Shel—she left here hours ago. She should have been there long before now.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. I’ll give her a call right away.”

  Shelby hung up and called Leslie’s number. Even as it rang, he somehow knew she wasn’t going to answer. But that knowledge was immediately forgotten when he heard the faint ringing of a cellphone. He held his own phone away from his ear and listened. And then he shrugged. Mack must have forgotten his cell when he left for town.

  The ringing stopped and Leslie’s voice came on the line.

  “Hi,” it said.

  Shelby’s heart leaped. “Leslie, where—” But he was interrupted as Leslie’s voice continued.

  “I’m not here right now. Leave me a message and I’ll ring ya later!”

  Beep.

  Shelby hung up and stood in his living room, feeling defeated. There was no point leaving a message. She would know he called from her call history, and would know why he was calling. Leaving a message would probably irritate her. But as he stood there, his worry began turning into anger. Where the hell was she? She had no right to do this sort of thing. She was far too old to be this inconsiderate. Angrily, Shelby called back, this time planning a blistering message.

  As he waited, he realized the other phone—the one he’d assumed was Mack’s—was once more ringing. He checked the screen to make sure he hadn’t accidentally called the wrong phone. But, no—Leslie’s name and picture were clearly visible. He was calling her phone. And it was ringing. Ringing close enough to be heard.

  Shelby began walking toward the sound, trying to track its location. Then he realized it was outside. He went to the door, opened it, and discovered a late model cellphone on the front porch. He picked it up and held it to his ear. As he did so, it stopped ringing. Listening on his own phone, he once more heard Leslie’s voicemail message: “…I’ll ring ya later!”

  Shelby stood on the porch and looked out into the woods surrounding his cabin. Someone had Leslie. Someone had his daughter.

  6

  Angel leaned against the door of her duplex as she dug in her purse for keys. At last she found them—at the bottom, of course—and tried to insert the key into the lock. Her hands shook so much the keys rattled and only after three failed attempts did she realize she was using the wrong one. She found the right one, dropped the ring, and had to relocate the correct key. It finally slid into the lock. She turned it, the bolt clicked open, and she nearly fell into the room. She turned, closed the door, locked it, and then slowly slid down the door until her butt hit the threadbare welcome rug.

  Then she started to cry.

  The salty tears stung her face, and she wondered if she even still looked like herself. It was her own fault—she had miscalculated. Usually she could spot the bad ones and knew how to play her cards to remain safe. But she had misread this one. Not only had he turned violent, but once he’d started, he hadn’t wanted to stop.

  Angel started to stand up, but her legs had locked up. They’d gotten her home, but now refused to cooperate, as if she’d made them work by sheer willpower. She didn’t push herself, choosing to crawl toward the bathroom. She wanted to assess the damage. It might feel worse than it was, but she didn’t think so.

  She reached the bathroom and managed to pull herself up by the counter to look into the mirror—and gasped out loud at the reflection. She didn’t recognize the swollen, bluish face looking back. Cuts and mottled blood decorated her countenance. The entire spectacle reminded her of aerial photographs she’d seen in high school history from the First World War of no man’s land—just barren, scarred landscape captured in stark black and white. That was her face—a war zone—and her eyes stared, empty and hopeless.

  And she did feel hopeless, truly hopeless for the first time. She didn’t hate her life–hadn’t up until now, anyway. She’d always made the best of it. She was still young, attractive, vibrant. The occasional knocking around was rare enough for the money—but not this. Angel felt as if she’d aged ten years in the space of an hour. As odd as it seemed, she felt as if her innocence had only now been completely eradicated. Throughout everything she’d experienced and done to this point, she had always felt a sense of virtue. She knew others would scoff at such a notion, but she’d clung to it. Always redeemable, she’d thought. Until now. Now she felt utterly lost, as if she had at last gone too far to sea and the shore had faded into the horizon forever. Still crying, Angel peeled off her shirt. Her torso was checkered with bruises and abrasions. She wondered if a rib was broken.

  Angel braced against the counter and closed her eyes against the continuing tears. She didn’t even have to try—her eyes were so swollen she could barely see from them anyway.

  After a minute, two minutes, an hour—Angel wasn’t sure—she felt strong enough to move. She let go of the counter, swayed, then balanced. She looked again at her reflection, then her hand went out and she opened the medicine cabinet. Inside were small shelves of floss, toothpaste, eye cream, and other assorted toiletries.

  And the orange bottle of pills.

  Angel took the pills from the shelf and shook the bottle, listening to the rattle. It would be quick, easy. Toss them back, a quick drink from the faucet, lie down on the bed, and go to sleep. Even if there was some unpleasantness or discomfort, it would be short-lived and followed by infinite peace. She let her burning eyes close and willed herself to take the pills. Her mind was there and ready, but her heart still lived.

  Angel made her way out into the main room. Her purse lay by the front door and she bent to retrieve it, receiving a stabbing pain in her side for the trouble, and took it to the couch. She sat and rummaged through the purse. Why was anything you wanted always at the bottom? Finally locating her phone, Angel flipped through her recent calls, not going far before she found the correct one. She pressed the number and it began to ring.

  The voice that answered was a balm to Angel’s shattered spirit.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me. Angel.”

  “I know it’s you, silly. You came up on my screen.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Are you okay? You sound funny.”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You’re lying to me, girl. What’s wrong?”

  Angel felt the tears renew.

  “Angel? I’m going to video chat you.”

  “No, I—”

  Angel’s phone vibrated with the incoming video call. She didn’t want to answer—but at the same time, she did. She wanted someone else to see what had happened to her, even though the shame was growing by the minute. She pressed the Accept button before she could talk herself out of it. The screen came alive with grainy video that flickered and jerked before settling into a higher resolution setting.

  “Hi, girl. What’s—” The friend broke off when
she saw Angel’s face. “Oh my god. Honey—what happened to you?”

  Angel couldn’t hold back any longer and dissolved into full-fledged sobbing. She bent over, the sobs racking her body. She remained there for several minutes, her friend murmuring comforting words.

  “You poor thing. Talk to me, Angel. What happened? Who did this?”

  Angel took a deep, wavering breath, centered herself, and faced the camera. In halting style, she got out the story and then sat back, feeling marginally better having told someone.

  “You need to get out of that line of work,” the friend said.

  Angel sniffed and glanced around for a tissue. “As if it was that easy.”

  “I did it.”

  “Then you should know how hard it is. I don’t have your spirit and determination, Carly. I’m not as smart as you.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re making excuses. Listen, I get it and I’m not judging you—when the money’s good, you overlook things and ignore warning signs. But this was a bad one. What if the next one is worse? What if you don’t survive? Will it have been worth it? Get out now while you’re still young and—this current situation aside—healthy enough to build a different life.”

  “I wouldn’t know the first thing to do.”

  “I have friends at The Barn Door. I could put in a word for you.”

  “I don’t think I could wait tables.”

  “It’s not so bad once you get into the routine.”

  “And what about money? I know you struggled after you stopped hooking. The Barn Door was a pay cut.”

  “But I never regretted it. Angel—this is your wake-up call. You might not get another.”

  Angel didn’t reply but looked away from the screen. She couldn’t meet Carly’s frank, sincere gaze. She knew there was truth in her friend’s words. Carly was a rare example of someone who left hooking and went on to make a life for herself. Most others Angel had known worked until they were too used up to get the higher paying clients and had too many arrests on their record to enter a new line of work. From there, they took whatever low wage gig they could get and spent their measly paychecks on cigarettes, cheap beer, and meth. Some migrated or began haunting truck stops. By then, they were trapped. But Angel knew she had time left and if she could ever begin saving her money, she might develop a nest egg by the time Mother Nature decided her body’s best days were over. Then Angel could move on, perhaps do what Carly had done and return to school.

  Carly sighed, as if knowing she had failed to penetrate the wall of inevitability clouding Angel’s mind.

  “How’s New York?” Angel asked, closing the door on the discussion.

  Carly said nothing.

  “Carly? Don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m worried about you, that’s all. If you can’t stop hooking right now, at least promise one thing.”

  “Anything, Carly. You name it.”

  “I have a friend I’d like you to go see. He’s good at solving problems and might be able to help you stay safe. Will you see him?”

  Angel hesitated. “He’s not the law, is he?”

  Carly laughed. “Not even close.”

  “I don’t know if–”

  “Angel, you promised. I’ll give you the address and let him know you’re coming.”

  7

  Mack arrived at the cabin only ten minutes after Shelby’s text that had let him know of Leslie’s disappearance. When he walked into the cabin, he went directly to the liquor cabinet, knelt down to get a good look in its dark recesses, and began clinking bottles around.

  “Is this the best scotch you have?”

  Shelby glanced over his shoulder. “No. But the other is secreted away for a special occasion.”

  “I’m not a special occasion?”

  “Not anymore. I’ve gotten used to you.”

  Mack straightened, bending backward with his hand on his lower back. “Ow. You need to keep your booze water in a more accessible location.”

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting to make your liquor gathering comfort a top priority.”

  Mack halted for a moment and a look of compassion drifted over his face. “She’ll be okay, Shel. We’ll find her.” Then it was back to business. “Serious times call for serious booze. I’m thinking a MacIntyre Malt is in order.”

  Despite his worry, Shelby cringed. “Are you still making those horrible things?”

  The MacIntyre Malt was concoction Mack had devised many years ago. It was basically a lot of different types of bad alcohol mixed together and topped with a splash of top shelf scotch. Just a “splash,” because at the time of creation, Mack couldn’t afford anything better.

  “I haven’t made one in years, but I remember them as highly therapeutic. And they were popular.”

  “Two reasons why. First, the MacIntyre Malt had a way of making you forget unpleasant things. Second, it got you very drunk very quickly, which was the point of alcohol when we were young enough to actually consider drinking anything you mixed.”

  A knock on the front door caused them both to jump.

  “That must be the cops,” Shelby said, moving toward the door.

  Mack paused his mixology. “You called the cops? I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “If I knew where she was, I’d be there right now bashing heads together. But as it is, I could use resources only the cops can utilize on short notice.”

  “No argument from me,” Mack said. A former police detective, he knew exactly what those resources were and, though he was keenly aware of the shortcomings of law enforcement, still held the badge in high esteem. “At least we know it won’t be Wilkes.”

  Shelby snorted, remembering the crooked lawman’s demise.

  “Too soon?” Mack said.

  Shelby moved toward the front door and opened it.

  A uniformed officer, one Shelby didn’t remember seeing before, stood on the porch. And he knew he would have remembered. She looked to be in her mid-forties and the uniform did little to disguise the obvious curves of her body. Her red hair was pulled back in a functional knot at the back of her head, but instead of neutralizing her femininity, it only accentuated high cheek bones and classic jaw line. Her skin was fair, lightly-freckled across the nose, and her emerald eyes were deep and wise.

  “Mr. Alexander?”

  Shelby almost smiled when he heard the light Irish brogue. Now this was a woman.

  “Yes, I’m Alexander.”

  The officer held out her hand. “I’m Angela Hammer. I’m the acting sheriff while a permanent replacement is found for the late Sheriff Wilkes.”

  “You have very small shoes to fill,” Shelby said. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Sheriff Hammer stepped inside and looked around. She spotted Mack looking on from the kitchen.

  “Any officer of the law other than Wilkes is welcome here,” he said, giving a little wave.

  Hammer smiled guardedly. “Yes—he was not a credit to the force. I only regret we weren’t able to oust him sooner. The powers that be, you know.”

  “Indeed,” Shelby said. “Nothing is more difficult than making the powers that be turn into the powers that were. Thank you for coming out so quickly.”

  “It was no trouble. In fact, I would have been here sooner, but I got a call on the way over.”

  “Oh? Anything pertaining to my daughter?”

  “May I speak freely?” Hammer motioned toward Mack, who had joined them from the kitchen.

  Shelby nodded. “Contrary to popular opinion, Mack is a responsible adult. I’d trust him with my life, and anything you have to say can be said in front of him. He’s an ex-cop with a sterling record with the Detroit PD.”

  “I’ll not hold that against you, Mack,” Hammer said as she held out her hand. The tone in her voice suggested she was at least halfway joking.

  Mack took the offered handshake. “Because I was a cop or because I’m from Detroit?”

  “T
ake your pick.”

  “Interesting statement from a sheriff, interim or otherwise,” Shelby said.

  Hammer shrugged. “I’ve been around long enough to know wearing a badge doesn’t change your character—it amplifies it. The good ones become exceptional; the bad ones become downright evil.”

  Shelby raised an eyebrow as he listened. It pleased him to hear someone from inside law enforcement echo opinions he’d long held. That sort of nuanced view was not often vocalized among the ranks, even by those who might hold such views. Cops simply didn’t speak ill of cops.

  “Well, I for one think you’re right on the money,” Mack said. “Of course, I spent my career in Detroit, so I might be jaded.”

  Shelby cleared his throat. “You say you got a call?”

  “Yes. A deputy found a car registered to your daughter on the side of the road.”

  “And what about Leslie?”

  “There was no sign of her.”

  “What about the car?”

  “It seemed in perfect condition. There wasn’t any sign of foul play. No car damage, not even a flat tire. The keys were still in the vehicle and when an officer tried the ignition, it started up without issue.”

  “So we can rule out vehicular failure.”

  “It looks that way. Were you expecting your daughter?”

  “Yes. She lives downstate, Grand Rapids, and was coming up here for a few days.”

  “And when is the last time you talked to her?”

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “We finalized her plan for the trip.”

  “And nothing else?”

  Shelby heaved an exasperated sigh. “She repeated her desire that I get a colonoscopy, just to be on the safe side. Look, this is sounding more and more like the third degree.”

  “Don’t get worked up, Mr. Alexander. We don’t know what happened and losing our cool won’t help anything.”