Fearless

by Mike Dellosso

  After arranging three place settings at the small table, he unlocked the door to the makeshift room and let the Appletons out. They sat at the table without saying a word.

  Mitch took his chair and lifted his fork but stopped when Clare cleared her throat. She smiled again and said, “Would you mind terribly if Bob said grace before we ate?”

  The request was odd as Mitch had never said grace before, had never even recognized that there was a God let alone one that took enough interest in the earth’s peons to provide them with food. But he admired Clare Appleton for her faith, so he agreed.

  She nodded at Bob, and they both bowed their heads.

  “Father,” Bob said, “thank You for Your presence even here in this basement. Thank You for the food before us and for the hands that prepared it.” He paused briefly, long enough, though, that it caused Mitch to wonder about the old farmer’s sincerity. Bob continued, “And Father, meet Mitch where he is and show him Your love. Amen.”

  Both Bob and Clare picked up their forks and began eating. Mitch, however, hesitated. Bob’s prayer had affected him in a way he never foresaw happening. He wasn’t sure what to think or feel. Should he be offended? Irritated? Or impressed? Those words “show him Your love” rumbled around in his head like a marble in a bucket. He’d never heard them before and wasn’t sure even what they meant.

  “Mitch.” Clare’s voice pulled Mitch out of his thoughts.

  He looked at her blankly, forgetting about the plate in front of him, the hastily constructed room in the basement, his mission.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked. “It’s very good.” He noticed she had nearly finished her portion already.

  Mitch shook his head. “Uh, yes. Yes, I am.” He lifted the fork and cut off a piece of steak.

  “Do you mind me asking where you’re from originally?” Clare said.

  Mitch chewed and swallowed. “North Carolina.”

  “Whereabouts?” Bob said.

  He almost told them then decided against it. As much as he disliked thinking about it, Mitch knew when all this was done, he’d have to take care of the Appletons, but still he didn’t like the idea of them knowing too many details. “Nowhere special.”

  Clare set her fork on the plate and blotted her mouth with the napkin. “Did you enjoy your childhood?”

  “No.” The answer came so quickly it surprised even him.

  “No?” Bob’s eyes were wide, as if he expected more of an answer. “Why not?”

  Mitch pushed the plate away and sat back in the chair. He didn’t want to sulk in front of the Appletons, but talk of his childhood always brought on the storm clouds. “My father was . . . harsh.”

  “Harsh as in strict?” Clare said. “Or harsh as in violent?”

  “He . . . ” Mitch stopped. He didn’t want to go back to that time. If and when he did, it would be on his terms, not at the prompting of someone else. Those were memories he’d filed away in a special place in his brain, a place under lock and key, only to be retrieved when he needed to stoke the fires of his hatred.

  Abruptly Mitch stood, knocking the chair over behind him. “I think that’s all for tonight.”

  “I’m sorry,” Clare said.

  “Don’t be. I think our dinner is over.” He waited for them to stand. “In your room now.”

  Clare apologized again, but Mitch brushed her off. When he had secured both of them in the room and locked the door, he lowered his eyes to the floor. “I’ll be back later to allow you time in the bathroom.” Then he turned and left. At the top of the steps he rested his forehead on the door and grabbed the knob. His hand trembled. Memories of his childhood had stirred that familiar yet toxic blend of fear and rage within him.

  He looked at his watch. A few more hours and he’d lock another piece in his puzzle. And take another step toward freedom.

  Chapter 33

  JIM STARTLED AWAKE and rolled onto his back. He’d thought he heard the front door click open. Or was it part of a dream he’d already forgotten? He was in that muddled state between sleep and reality where he couldn’t tell what had happened in the tangible world and what had merely been part of his dream. Mercurial thoughts ran through his head, coming and going like quicksilver on a pane of glass. He stared at the ceiling, waiting a few seconds for his head to clear and his thoughts to congeal. Moonlight sneaked around the edges of the blinds, dusting the room in a bluish glow.

  There, another click, this one definitely the sound of a door’s latch engaging the strike plate. Spider legs tingled up and down Jim’s limbs, crawled up the back of his neck, and tightened his scalp.

  Jim sat up and rubbed his face, combed his fingers through his hair. Beside him, Amy slept. The digital clock read 11:48. He’d only been asleep for half an hour. He held his breath and listened. The house was as quiet as a ghost ship afloat in the middle of a watery graveyard. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t in the house. The living room carpet would surely muffle the sound of footsteps.

  Pushing back the covers, he slid his legs off the bed and stood, careful not to disturb Amy. Jim didn’t own a gun, but now he wished he did. Instead he kept a golf club by his bed, a five iron. He picked it up and gripped it with both hands, holding it like a baseball bat over his shoulder.

  Opening the bedroom door, he stopped to listen again, straining to hear even the slightest moan from the floorboards or the steady whisper of breathing. He’d made no noise himself crossing the bedroom and pulling open the door, so he was confident he still held the advantage of surprise.

  Once in the hallway Jim stayed close to the wall. He knew where the creaky floorboards were and that they were all located in the center of the hallway. Near the wall, where the boards were more securely fastened, they were as solid as the day they were nailed into place.

  From outside he heard a man’s voice, then a woman’s. Their tone was more urgent than conversational but muffled enough that Jim couldn’t make out what they were saying. He took more steps down the hallway, rounded a short corner, and ducked into his office. Louisa’s cot was empty, the covers pushed down to the foot of the mattress. Over by the wall and the window overlooking the front yard sat his desk, a solid oak antique partners piece Amy had bought him when they made the decision he should write full-time. The venetian blinds were turned slightly down so the moonlight filtering through cast long stripes of gray-blue light over the desk.

  The voices were there again. A woman sounded like she was pleading.

  Quickly, still holding the club over his shoulder, Jim crossed the room and rounded the desk. Reaching the window, he pushed the blinds aside. Four people stood on the front lawn, two adults and two children. Moonlight cast long shadows from their feet but hid their faces in a shroud of darkness. From his vantage point on the second floor the whole scene had an eerie otherworldly look to it, as if this was still part of his dream and he was hovering above some alien landscape watching the inhabitants below interact.

  One of the children was a girl; he could see that much. Smallish, with blonde hair. It was Louisa; there was no doubt about it. The click of the door must have been her leaving the house. The other three were a man, a woman, and a young boy. As Jim watched, gripping the club, the man, a tall, thin guy, reached out for Louisa’s hand.

  “No,” Jim whispered. His muscles tensed, heart beat faster.

  The man took Louisa’s hand in hers, and all four of them turned for an SUV parked in the driveway.

  Jim let the blinds fall back into place and made a dash for the hallway. His mind raced, heart pounded like the hooves of a thoroughbred coming down the home stretch. Thoughts, disjointed and jumbled, clamored through his head.

  Who were the people who had arrived at his home at such a late hour?

  What business did they have being here?

  Why had Louisa so willingly gone with them?

  Were they her parents? Her lost family? Come to finally take her home?

  Jim bounded down the steps two at
a time. He didn’t care now how much noise he made now.

  If it was Louisa’s family, why had she not hugged them? Fallen into her father’s arms?

  Why would she leave without saying good-bye?

  In the living room he made a straight line for the front door and threw it open.

  There was only one explanation that made any kind of sense: They were here to kidnap Louisa. The miracle kid was now a wanted commodity.

  Jim stepped out onto the front concrete landing just as the foursome reached the SUV.

  He raised the five iron off his shoulder, cocked like a homerun leader ready to swing for the fence, and made steps toward the driveway. “Hey, stop.” The idea of a physical confrontation had pushed adrenaline into his bloodstream at such a rate that it tied his tongue in a knot and twisted his throat.

  The man halted dead in his tracks and turned around, surprise widening his eyes. Jim couldn’t tell if it was surprise at his sudden appearance or at the threat of a golf club wielded by a mad man with wild hair and clenched teeth. Whatever the reason, the man took a step toward the car while at the same time wrapping his arm around the woman and the other child, a boy about the same age as Louisa.

  Jim reached them quicker than he thought he could and stopped in front of them, ready to helicopter the club in a wide arc if needed.

  Louisa looked at him with calm eyes and lifted a hand as if to stop him with some unseen force. “Wait, Mr. Jim. Wait.”

  The man had stepped in front of the woman and child and now crouched in a defensive position.

  Louisa took a step forward. “It’s okay, Mr. Jim. They came for help.”

  Confused, Jim lowered the club to his shoulder. He noticed he was panting and must have looked a sight, barging out of the house in his pajamas cocking a five iron like it was a battle-ax. The look on Louisa’s face and the fear in the man’s and woman’s eyes told him they meant no ill intent.

  “I’m sorry,” Jim said, his voice trembling. “Sorry.” He turned to the man. “Who are you?”

  The man relaxed and stood to his full height. One hand remained on his wife’s arm. “I’m Ed Swanson, and this is my wife, Rosa . . . ” Rosa was short and slight and appeared to be of Hispanic ethnicity. “And this is our son Eddie, and—” He opened the back passenger side door of the SUV. “—our son Armand.”

  “We call him Army,” Eddie said.

  Army slumped in a car seat. He looked to be about four or five but was as frail as a leafless branch. His pale skin stretched taut over every angle of his face. He looked at Jim with hollow eyes, forced a smile, and gave a weak wave.

  Ed reached his hand into the vehicle and held his son’s hand. “Armand developed a brain tumor when he was just a year old. Every doctor we’ve been to has said it’s inoperable. He’s had so much treatment already, but the tumor is still there. They say he shouldn’t be alive. But he’s a fighter.”

  Eddie piped up again. “That’s why we call him Army.”

  Rosa glanced at Louisa. “We hear from Eddie what this child did for the Murphy girl.”

  “And you want her to heal your son.” Jim got it now.

  “Yes,” Rosa said. “We come at night so no one sees, and maybe the girl can pray for Armand. She come here to us before we even knock.”

  Jim’s heart ached for the Swansons, for their life of living every day not knowing if it would be their last with the son they’d nursed for five years. But Louisa wasn’t some circus sideshow, doing tricks and performing miracles under the cover of darkness. “Folks, I don’t know if this—”

  Louisa put her hand on Jim’s arm. Her touch was so light and soft he barely noticed it. “Mr. Jim, I want to. I want to pray for Army.”

  Jim shifted his eyes between Louisa and the Swansons. Chief Miller said to lie low. The last thing he needed was a mob on his lawn at midnight, all of them clamoring for a touch from the miracle girl. Finally he knelt before Louisa. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “I know. But I want to. God can help Army.”

  “Well, okay then.” Jim still wasn’t sold on the idea, but it wasn’t his place to stop the girl. He had no right to demand she not pray for a sick and dying boy.

  Louisa stepped close to the SUV and rested her hand on Armand’s leg. The boy placed his skeletal hand on top of hers and smiled again. Then Louisa closed her eyes and moved her lips in silent petition. The Swansons each bowed their heads. Rosa began crying. Ed pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

  When she was finished, Louisa removed her hand from Armand’s leg and sighed.

  Rosa cupped the girl’s face in her olive hands and kissed her forehead repeatedly while rambling something in Spanish.

  After they said their thank-yous and multiple apologies for coming at that time of night, the Swansons piled back into their SUV and pulled away.

  Jim put his hand on Louisa’s shoulder. “And all you did was pray?”

  She nodded. “Army needs a lot of prayers.”

  “Yeah, I suppose he does. You ready to go back inside?” He slid his hand off her shoulder and turned for the house.

  “Wait. Mr. Jim?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Out here? It’s kind of cold. Can we go inside?”

  “I remembered something else.”

  Intrigued, Jim faced Louisa and bent at the waist. “You remembered something?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you gonna keep me in suspense?”

  “I have a brother.”

  Chapter 34

  MITCH ALBRIGHT SAT in his car outside the home of Buck Petrosky. It was a humble home, an aging trailer situated on three acres of cleared and wooded land, tucked between two fields on Swamp Road. The trailer sat a good hundred yards off the road, concealed by a stand of mature oaks and maples. If one wasn’t looking for the property, one would blow right by it without knowing it was even inhabited.

  And that’s the way Buck liked it.

  Mitch knew more about Buck than he should have. He knew he had a criminal record, that he’d been busted for battery and disorderly conduct all on the same night. He knew Buck lived alone, that he worked for a tree service company and had a mouth as big and ignorant as a battering ram. Buck Petrosky was the kind of guy who drove a pickup with oversized knobby tires and flew the Confederate flag with pride. He was never seen in public without his greasy and stained ball cap, the camouflage one with the rebel crossbars on it. He was usually unkempt, unshaven, and smelled like body odor and stale nicotine. In Mitch’s estimation Buck was as barrel-chested as a grizzly and ugly as a moose.

  It was time to teach him some respect.

  When the sun had properly set and the only light for miles was the tiny glowing windows of Buck’s trailer, Mitch grabbed his flashlight, slipped out of the Explorer, and walked down the gravel lane to the trailer. Buck’s truck was parked beside the trailer, dark and quiet. The light in one of the windows flickered erratically. The big man was watching television.

  Above, the sky was cloudless and the moon almost full. Its light filtered down through the trees and cast the whole clearing in a dusty light. Shadows were irregular and fuzzy as if they were some undiscovered variety of mold growing along the ground, creeping closer to the trailer.

  As silently as a ghost hovers above the ground, Mitch moved to the back door. A set of five wooden steps ascended to a small landing outside the door, and at the bottom of the steps, on a square of laid brick, were two metal trash cans, their lids held tight with bungee cord. Slowly, so as not to make a sound, Mitch unhooked one of the cords. He reached behind him and retrieved his knife, held it in his right hand, then kicked one of the cans over. Quickly he ducked behind the landing and crouched low to the ground, concealed by the moldy shadow of the trailer.

  The trailer creaked and seemed to shift. Heavy footsteps thumped along the plywood flooring. Then the back light flicked on, one of those yellow bulbs that dispel
led the light of the moon and colored the area with a mustardy glow, and the door opened. All was quiet for a moment except for Buck’s labored breathing. Eventually Buck cursed and shut the door again. For a moment Mitch thought he’d lost his opportunity and would have to try another approach, but then, just seconds later, the door opened again and Buck stepped out onto the landing, mumbling something about shooting the raccoons. His heavy boots clunked down the steps, and with a grunt, he bent at the waist to pick up the can and the garbage that had spilled out of it.

  When he stood erect again, pulling the can upright with him, Mitch moved. As quickly and quietly as a stealth striker, he approached Buck from behind and thrust the knife into the big man’s lower back, in the area of the right kidney.

  Buck grunted and arched his back, stumbled forward, knocked the trash can over again, but caught himself on the trailer’s siding. Mitch had the knife in his hand, its blade red with smeared blood.

  He followed Buck and, without a word, lunged at him. Buck turned just as Mitch made his move and windmilled his arm, catching Mitch’s and nearly knocking the knife out of his hand.

  Buck’s eyes widened to the size of eggs and his lips pulled back in a primal snarl. He growled like a bear whose wounds were not fatal and only managed to anger him.

  For a few long seconds the two men faced each other, neither saying a word, crouched and ready to strike. Mitch knew the longer the standoff went on, the more advantage he had. Buck’s wound had to be bleeding, weakening the beast of a man by the second. Besides, the internal damage alone would put him down eventually. But Mitch didn’t want to have to wait. He wanted to end this quickly and teach Buck Petrosky what it was like to respect someone who held your life in his hands.

  Mitch took a quick step left, and Buck flinched and stepped right, wincing with pain. His movements were slow and clumsy.

  In the light of the yellow bulb, dewy sweat glistened on Buck’s face. He wiped it from his eyes and pumped his fists like he was pounding on an imaginary tabletop. “Well, c’mon,” he yelled. “Do it.”