Tim’s bedroom door loomed ahead, growing nearer and nearer. Her heart pounded faster. Her skin prickled. She reached the doorway.
Anita stepped inside.
Cary stared back at her.
Cary stood at the foot of the bed, gaunt and fierce, nostrils flared, eyes on fire. She was draped in a robe. She held Tim in her long, bony arms. Tim clung to her.
Anita gasped. She spun around…
…and faced Dennis. His face was tight with rage. He wore a pajama top, sweatpants, and slippers. He held a gun in his hand. Pointed at Anita.
Dennis snatched the golf club out of Anita’s grasp. He threw it to the ground. His voice simmered with venom.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Anita could barely breathe. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream.
Dennis kept the gun parallel with Anita’s sternum.
“Take care of her,” hissed Cary.
Dennis stared into Anita’s eyes. She could see the cold hate inside him. There wasn’t even a glimmer of the man he used to be. That man was long gone.
“Give me what’s in your pocket,” Dennis said. “Now.”
Anita remained frozen. “What?”
“You don’t have a chance in hell of protecting yourself,” said Dennis. “So give up what’s in your pocket.”
The knife, she realized. He knows I have the knife.
He continued aiming the gun at her. “Give it to me now. Now. NOW!”
Anita started to reach in her back pocket, under her shirt.
Dennis boomed, “The mace! Give me the goddamned mace!”
Anita hesitated. She brought her hands forward. The pepper spray was in her front pocket. She slowly pulled out the small black cylinder. She handed it over.
Dennis snatched it. “Thank you. Now come with me.”
“Where are we going?” asked Anita.
“I suggest you come with me, unless,” said Dennis, “you would like Tim to see you die.”
Anita turned and looked back at Cary. Tim was awake in her arms, eyes wide and frightened. His little arms and legs were wrapped around Cary’s side.
Abruptly, Anita felt a hard blow to the back of her head. She reeled, seeing stars, but managed to stay on her feet. Dennis had hit her with the gun.
“I’m not going to ask again,” said Dennis. “You’re coming with me.”
Anita felt tears well up in her eyes. She couldn’t stop looking into Tim’s scared face.
Was this the last time she would ever see him?
“You are Tim,” she told him, putting every ounce of emphasis on his real name. “You are my son. I am your mother. I love you, Tim.”
Cary turned away, shielding Tim from Anita. “Don’t pay any attention to that crazy lady,” she said, stroking his hair. “You’re having a bad dream.”
Cary took him away. She closed the bedroom door, shutting it on Anita’s face.
“Ready?” said Dennis.
Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Thunder rumbled, rattling the windows.
“Let’s go, move,” growled Dennis. He shoved Anita, pushing her several steps down the corridor. “We’re going outside.”
Dennis pulled back the slide on the gun, cocking the hammer.
“Hold tight,” he called out to Cary. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”
XXIII
With Dennis shoving and prodding, Anita moved through the house, the walls winding past her. He directed her down the hall corridor, into the kitchen, and toward the back door. When she slowed, he struck her in the back to pick up the pace.
“Dennis, please…” she begged.
“Outside,” he replied.
She advanced through the back door into the yard. The rain continued to pelt the earth in the dark, creating long puddles. The trees shook violently, dumping branches around them. The wind stung through her wet clothes.
“Keep going,” said Dennis. Every time she slowed down, he shoved harder, nearly knocking her down. It was getting difficult to see where she was going. Her hands were outstretched into the sheets of rain. She stepped between trees and pushed past wet brush. The mud gripped at her tennis shoes.
Dennis drove Anita deeper and deeper into the woods.
“You brought this on yourself,” shouted Dennis above the storm. “I didn’t want to have to do this. This is all your doing. You should have stayed home. You never should have left California.”
She couldn’t see the cottage, but could sense that it was shrinking behind them. They were soon in the vicinity of Roy’s grave.
Dennis ordered her: “Stop!”
She stopped. The wind howled, the rain blew sideways.
“Look at me,” said Dennis.
Anita turned to look at her ex-husband.
Dennis sprayed her in the face with the pepper spray.
Anita screamed. She dropped to her knees, in the mud.
Her eyes burned. She could not open them. Her chest tightened, reducing her breathing to coughs and gasps. Her entire face stung powerfully.
“How does it feel?” snarled Dennis. “Doesn’t feel too good, does it? A dose of your own medicine.”
She couldn’t respond. She couldn’t even cry. It was all she could do to get oxygen into her lungs. She felt the skin around her eyes swelling. She tried to force them open. She couldn’t. They shut involuntarily.
She was blind.
She knew he was standing over her. Then she felt something cold and metallic touch her temple.
“You can’t see, can you?” said Dennis. “Then let me tell you what’s happening. I am aiming a gun at your head. I am going to put a bullet in your brain. You are going to join your buddy Roy in the ground. You are going to be worm food.”
“Dennis, wait…” she pleaded.
“You’re not going to get any sympathy, Anita.”
Anita, choking, groped at her surroundings. Her knees slipped in the mud. Dennis laughed at her.
“You really look fucking pathetic right now,” he told her.
The kitchen knife was still in her back pocket, under her shirt, inside the map. If only she could see…
She had to buy time. She had to make him talk, listen hard to pinpoint his location, and then strike with her instincts. She would only have one chance.
If I miss, I’m dead.
“Dennis…” said Anita, still coughing. “Why did you do this?”
“Some fathers will just go the extra mile for their children,” he said. “Do you think I would leave you and let you keep Tim? He’s my boy. He’s mine. Let’s face it, Anita, you were never really there for him anyway. You were a lousy mother. You couldn’t care less about him.”
“That’s a lie!” she shouted.
“You saw him maybe two hours a week, you were so goddamned self-absorbed. Well, you know what, he doesn’t know you. He never did. A few more years, and you will be a forgotten memory. You will not mean shit to him. He’s got a new mother now. She will be his mother for the rest of his life. You will be…nothing.”
Anita reached an arm behind her back…lifted the shirt…and touched the map in her back pocket.
“Well, I guess this is it, sweetie,” announced Dennis. “I look forward to digging your grave.”
Still reaching behind her, Anita fumbled with the map…extracted the knife…and got a solid grip on the handle…
“Goodbye, Anita,” said Dennis. “Put a nice image in your head. Because it’ll be the last—”
With every ounce of strength in her, Anita lunged. She drove the knife forward into the dark. The knife hit a solid target. The blade sank and kept going.
A loud bang shattered the forest.
Horrific pain pierced Anita between her shoulder and neck. A bullet had grazed her collarbone. Anita splashed backward into the mud. She could hear Dennis thrashing wildly above, screaming into the storm. He was still standing, capable of taking another shot.
Anita whirled her momentum forward. She crashed into Dennis�
�felt his punches…seized at his body until she found what she was looking for…
Anita grabbed the knife handle with both hands and used all of her might to drag it wider and sink it deeper.
Dennis howled and both of them tumbled into the mud. The pain in Anita’s shoulder was unbearable, but she seized on the agony to keep going, like a vicious, wounded animal.
Dennis continued to flop violently. Their arms and legs entangled into a single being, everything soaked in mud. She could hear his panting and wheezing near her ear. Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes to open halfway. She looked skyward and let the rain splash on her face and eyes, wiping away the pepper spray.
As her eyesight returned, the first thing she saw was the gun moving toward her face. She shoved it away and a bullet fired into the trees. A shot of thunder followed that lit up the sky. She could see Dennis jerking his body in a frenzy. His eyes bugged liked a psychotic. The arm with the gun swung wildly.
Anita rolled away from him and desperately searched the ground. Where was the knife?
Dennis struggled to return to his feet. The knife remained in his chest, protruding grotesquely from a bloody shirt.
Anita threw herself into him. She grabbed the knife handle. He shoved her away, which caused the knife to leave with her.
Dennis, face half-blackened with mud, looking like some kind of deranged creature, swung the gun back in her direction.
Anita aimed for the heart. She drove the knife back into his chest.
Dennis let out a piercing cry. He squirmed spasmodically, gurgling. He stared into her eyes, shocked, and in a chilling instant, became the old, lost Dennis from long ago. Then he went limp and rubbery. He sank into the mud,dropped the gun and crumpled.
Anita kneeled over him. Dennis did not move.
A flash of lightning lit him up. The rain continued to splash down on his face, into his open eyes. Dennis did not blink.
Anita turned away, gasping and shuddering. Sharp pain burned in her shoulder, shooting down her left arm, up her neck…
I’ve been shot.
Her shirt was soaked and she couldn’t tell what was blood, what was rain, and what was mud. Her left arm felt useless and numb.
As her sight continued to improve, she looked back at him.
Dennis was dead. One hand remained locked into a clawlike position. The gun remained at his side.
Anita reached to the ground and picked up the gun.
She looked back to the house, lit up, like a beacon that beckoned in the dark.
She rose to her feet. She locked her sights on the house.
OK, Cary. Now I’m coming for you.
Anita stepped into the house through the door to the kitchen.
Cary’s voice sounded from another room. “So you shot her? The bitch is dead?”
Anita followed the sound of the voice. She left a trail of mud and blood on the linoleum. Her left arm remained limp at her side…but her right arm was good and strong and gripped the gun. The searing pain did not matter.
Anita entered the living room. Cary sat in the dark, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, smoking a cigarette. She looked up and saw a bloodied, soaked crazy woman with wild hair and a dangerous expression pointing a gun at her.
Cary jumped to her feet, tossing the cigarette. “Shit!”
Anita aimed for Cary’s bosom. “Give me my son.”
Cary stared at Anita in horror. Then, in a flash, she dashed from the sofa to a nearby doorway.
Anita had the gun fixed on her. But she hesitated pulling the trigger for a split second. That split second was all Cary needed to flee the room.
DAMN! Anita quickly followed.
Anita entered the hallway and then heard noise in Tim’s room. She heard Tim squeal and burst out crying. She dashed to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway.
Cary had pulled Tim out of bed. She held him tightly—roughly—in front of her. A human shield. Tim was startled, eyes wide with terror.
“You want to shoot me, you’re going to shoot him first,” said Cary.
Tim’s legs kicked. Cary’s fingernails dug into him. He howled.
“You think I care about him anymore?” said Cary. “You ruined everything. You destroyed this family. It’s over. This child means nothing to me.”
“Put him down,” demanded Anita.
“On the contrary,” said Cary. “You put your gun down. Or I will break his neck.” She grabbed Tim by the hair, pulled his head back. “Don’t think that I can’t do it. I will fucking kill him unless you hand over that gun. The gun and the keys to the van.”
Anita trembled. She didn’t know what to do. Cary looked deadly serious and desperate.
Tim cried, tears streaming down his face. His anguish was too much.
More than anything, Anita wanted to throw down the gun…retrieve Tim…hold him tight in her arms…reassure him that everything was going to be OK…
“Give me the gun!” screamed Cary, gripping Tim’s scalp harder, pressing his head to one side.
Tim squirmed fiercely. His little arms and legs kicked.
Cary started to lose her grip…
“That’s right, Tim,” cried Anita. “You can do it. Come to your mommy.”
“I’m your mother,” Cary snarled.
“No, Tim, it’s me. You don’t remember…” Anita felt a rush of crying bubbling up inside her. “I’m your real mother…”
“Tim, I’m your mommy,” insisted Cary, trying to inject sweetness into her voice, but straining. “Don’t listen to her, she’s a crazy lady. She’s a crazy monster lady from the woods who wants to hurt you.”
Tim continued to struggle, panicked.
“Tim, please, that is not your real mommy,” pleaded Anita. “She is not who you think she is.”
“I am your mommy, goddamn it!” shouted Cary.
“NO!” cried out Tim. “I don’t like you!!”
Tim flopped wildly. His weight became unbalanced in her arms. He started to pull free…
Cary regained her grasp. She clutched at him madly, harshly, hurting him. Tim cried. She squeezed him back into her arms with such pressure that he reddened.
Tim bit Cary’s arm hard.
“Ow! You little bastard!” screamed Cary.
Tim tumbled to the ground.
Cary lunged for him.
Tim scrambled away.
Anita squeezed the trigger on the gun.
The force of the shot sent Cary crashing into the wall. Tim screamed, covering his ears. He ran from the room, past Anita.
Cary fell to a sitting position on the floor, a bullet hole in her stomach.
“Oh my God,” Cary moaned, in shock. “You shot me.”
Anita kept the gun aimed at her. Should she fire again?…
“I’m going to die…” gasped Cary, wide-eyed, suddenly childlike, petrified. “You shot me, I’m going to die…” The blood seeped in a widening circle under her shirt.
“Where’s your cell phone?” asked Anita.
“In…in our room,” said Cary.
Anita went into the master bedroom. She found the cell phone on the dresser. She grabbed it and returned to Cary. She tossed the phone at her.
“I guess you better call 911,” said Anita. “And tell the police how to get here.”
Cary gave Anita a long look. Her body shuddered with every breath, her face had gone ghastly pale.
“I don’t know you…” murmured Cary. “But all I wanted…was the same as you.”
Anita stared at her. She had nothing left to say to this woman. Anita turned away. She left the room to go find Tim.
Anita discovered Tim hiding in the bathroom, crouched in the corner. He was covering his ears and crying.
She placed the gun in the sink. “Tim,” said Anita gently. She bent down to one knee. “Tim, everything is OK. I know you’re scared. But you’re safe now. It’s over. Mommy’s here.”
She pleaded softly with him for several minutes. Finally, Tim turned. He looked at
her from under his blond bangs, uncertain, still crying.
“Tim,” said Anita. “Everything is better now. I’m your mommy.”
Tim looked at her for a long moment.
“You’re safe, honey,” she said, feeling the tears on her own face.
Tim took a hesitant step toward her. Then another. The third step brought him into her arms.
Anita hugged him tight with her right arm. Very tight. It felt so good. His little arms wrapped around her neck. They both cried.
She told Tim that she loved him. And she promised never, never to let him go.
XXIV
The first snapshot showed Anita bathing Tim, small and pink and three weeks old, in the kitchen sink. His hair was soaped together into a protruding point, unicorn style.
The second photo was outdoors, more than a year later. Tim was learning to walk. He wore blue overalls and tiny black sandals. One knee was dirty from a prior tumble. His face showed great concentration. Anita stood nearby with a big grin, clapping her hands.
The next picture was Tim on his very first day, bundled and secure in Anita’s arms in the hospital. His face was flattened and ruddy, eyes shut, hair askew, a startled new entry into the world. Anita held him close, glowing. It was the happiest moment of her entire life.
Anita continued through the small stack of photographs, narrating them as Tim watched in rapt attention. They sat on a blanket in a Sacramento park on a day where the blue sky stretched from end to end without interruption and the weather was so perfect it felt like no weather at all, except for the gentle rays of the sun.
Anita was reacquainting Tim with his past. Jeffrey was fading a little more every day, like a bad, distant dream. Tim asked a lot of questions, filling in the pieces where his memory couldn’t. She was delighted with his curiosity.
The counselor had said it would be a gradual recovery. He said not to expect miracles. Tim had a lot to get over. But he was young. He could outgrow the scars. He was in good hands. The odds were in his favor.
When Tim grew older, Anita knew she would have to tell him the truth about what happened to his father. And she would have to tell him about the bad woman in prison who helped his father do very bad things. It wouldn’t be easy. But every day was a little better, a little closer to some kind of normalcy. She would gladly accept the slow pace, the baby steps.
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