by T. R. Ragan
Her bottom lip trembled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did Patrick ever come here when I was away?”
She remained silent.
“Answer me,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, trying to retain her usual confidence. “But nothing happened.”
“Did he touch you?”
The door opened. Their younger child peeked inside. “Mom, are you OK?”
“Get out, you fucking brat!”
The door clicked shut.
Rae’s beautiful features hardened. Her shoulders stiffened. “Patrick was here, and he did touch me,” she said boldly. “He carried me in his arms, laid me on the marble island in the kitchen, and fucked me, hard and deep, like nothing I had ever experienced before. I think about him all the time. Your man Patrick is exquisite in every sense of the word. I hope you keep him around for a long, long time.”
The thought of her making a fool of him went beyond his wildest imagination. He dug his thumbs into her throat. Women were monsters. Had he forgotten? Clenching his teeth, he squeezed until she turned blue.
She fell to his feet just as he said she would, but she was alive, choking and wheezing on the floor while their older child called out worriedly from the hallway, asking if everything was all right.
No. Nothing was all right.
Patrick had lied to him. Was the kid really that stupid? Or had Aster truly been the fool all along? Most men had a difficult time taking their eyes off his wife, but he’d never believed Patrick would dare make a move on her, let alone fuck her in Aster’s own house. Sadly, he didn’t have to talk to Patrick to know it was true. Every conversation, every look, every move Patrick had made over the past few weeks suddenly made sense. The kid wanted what Aster had, including his wife. How he’d become blinded to it all, he didn’t know. Neither did he care, since it wasn’t too late to remedy the situation. He thought about his visit with Patrick, recalled the panicked look on the kid’s face when he’d first opened the door. Patrick had been worried about something. Clammy hands and a pale face should have been Aster’s first clue something was going on.
“Don’t you go anywhere while I’m gone,” he said to Rae. “I’ll deal with you later.” He used the tip of his shoe to nudge her body out of his way.
He peeked through the door and told the worried children in the hallway that their precious mother would be right there, and then he shut it tight again and went about locking his safe and gathering his things.
He wasn’t angry, he thought as he crooked his neck and heard it creak. He was fucking livid.
He grabbed two handguns before setting out for his meeting, relishing the moment when he would see Patrick again. Because this time he wouldn’t give the kid a chance to say a word. He’d simply meet his gaze straight on and shoot him dead.
EIGHTEEN
Beth Tanner searched through the guest room she used to store miscellaneous items, looking for the night-vision binoculars she’d bought years ago. She figured they might help Faith and the others keep an eye on the warehouse in East Sacramento. Instead, she happened upon an old scrapbook filled with memories of her daughter, Rose.
She took a seat on the edge of the cushioned futon and began turning the pages. She smiled at the expression on her daughter’s face as Rose devoured a cupcake on her first birthday. The ribbons glued on the pages surrounding the Polaroid pictures had grown brittle and yellow, but every precious memory squeezed at her heart: Rose on the teeter-totter at the park; Rose standing on a large rock in the middle of a field of high grasses, waving, happy; Rose proudly showing off the team leader award she’d been presented in the fifth grade. Rose. Rose. Rose.
Beth shut the book, hugged it to her breast, and closed her eyes.
She missed her daughter so much.
She was about to resume her search for the binoculars when she heard what sounded like the clanking of metal coming from her garage.
Slowly she put the scrapbook aside and came to her feet. Her first thought was of her guns locked in the master bedroom at the other end of the one-story house. She stood silently, listening, before stepping into the hallway.
At the end of the hall was a dark figure—a massive, broad-shouldered man, his eyes hidden beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, his lip deformed by a scar. He stood in place, unmoving, staring her way.
She whipped about, ran back into the spare room, and slammed the door shut. The second she turned the lock, the door handle jiggled.
Her gaze darted from one side of the room to the other. She needed something to defend herself with. She ran to the desk, rifled through the drawer, and grabbed the scissors.
A loud thud made her jump. The hinges rattled as her attacker threw his body at the door, again and again until the wood cracked down the middle. She rushed to the closet, slid open the mirrored door. On the floor were ten-pound weights she’d purchased but never used. With a weight in one hand and the scissors in the other, she went back to the cracked door and flattened herself against the wall.
Silence.
Where did he go? She prayed he’d left.
His leg smashed through the cracked wood. She cried out in surprise.
His booted foot was only inches away.
Without hesitating, she lunged, stabbing the scissors into his shin more than once. Blood spurted. He cursed and pulled his leg away.
Once again, all was quiet.
She remained still, her chest rising and falling. The adrenaline pumping through her blood made it difficult to think. The next few seconds felt like minutes. She was tempted to peek through the gaping hole he’d left in the door but didn’t dare move.
“I see you in there,” came a voice.
“I’ve already called the police,” she said.
“Funny, because I heard your cell phone ringing in the other room. Nice ringtone. Come out now, and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Through the window, she saw her neighbor Mr. Hawkins carrying a box. Pastries no doubt. He was a baker. The last time she’d run into him, he’d mentioned paying her a visit. Not now, she said inwardly. Not now, for God’s sake.
Hoping Mr. Hawkins would go away, she didn’t move a muscle. The doorbell sounded. Her shoulders fell. Not long after, she heard the front door open.
It was now or never.
Still holding the barbell and the scissors, she pushed through the splintered wood, scraping her legs and arms as she went.
“Run!” she shouted to Mr. Hawkins as she ran past the front entry toward her bedroom. But it was too late for her neighbor, she realized, as he fell forward in a bloody heap.
As she rushed past the kitchen, she considered escaping through the sliding door, but where would she run? How far would she get? Figuring her chances were better if she could get a hold of a gun, she continued toward her bedroom. She got as far as the bedroom door when he lunged for her, grabbed hold of her leg, and brought her to the ground with him.
Her head smacked against the floor. The scissors fell from her grasp.
He held tight to her left ankle.
Dazed from the hit to the head, she felt the barbell beneath her stomach. When he rolled to one side, he let go of her ankle long enough for her to thrust the heel of her boot into his head.
He cried out. She landed another kick to his shoulder.
This time he grunted but hardly slowed. As he came to his feet, she pushed herself to her knees and swung the barbell hard, swiping the left side of his face and hitting him in the nose and mouth. He stumbled forward, blood flowing from his nose, blocking her path to her gun case. She pushed herself to her feet, ran from the room, and headed for the sliding door.
A shot rang out.
She ducked as she ran to the kitchen for cover instead. Before hiding behind the center island, she grabbed the turning fork from the pan she’d used to cook a pot roast. She didn’t realize she’d been shot until she noticed a thin trickle of blood trailing across the floor.
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nbsp; With her back to the wood cabinet, her knees bent high in front of her chest, she waited. Her heart raced as she concentrated on listening to the man’s every movement.
He was taking slow, careful steps into the kitchen.
He was close.
The second she saw the tips of his boots, she sprang from her hiding place. Another shot rang out a split second before the sharp tips of the three-pronged fork sank deeply into his right eye. She grunted as she pushed hard, her body sagging fully against him as they fell to the floor together.
He was screaming, his body twisting in pain, but she used every muscle, all she had left to hold tight to the handle, gouging and prodding, refusing to give up until he fell silent.
Long moments passed before she found the strength to crawl from the kitchen, her fingers reaching, her legs pushing. Only last week she’d canceled her landline. Just as her attacker had said, her cell phone was in her bedroom. You can do it. She thought of Rose as she crawled on her belly, making her way across the floor, inch by inch. In her mind’s eye she saw her daughter, heard Rose’s voice encouraging her to keep moving.
At the door she saw her phone on the table by the bed.
She could make it. She could do this.
Beth wasn’t sure how long she’d lost consciousness, but when her eyes fluttered open, she was lying on her back on the floor. The phone was in her hand, pressed close to her chest. She heard a voice on the other end. “I need help,” she said. Her tongue felt numb, every word heavy as she gave her name and address. The woman told her to hang on, they would be there soon. Beth closed her eyes and smiled.
NINETEEN
Rage woke up in bed surrounded by pictures of her son, Callan. She’d been looking through the contents of the envelope Jana had brought when she’d dozed off, something she tended to do more and more often these days.
On the bed next to her were dozens of three-by-four glossy pictures of Callan along with two letters from his adoptive parents, Sue and Danny. According to Sue, Callan loved the Goodnight Moon book Rage had given him when she’d met her son. And he insisted Sue and Danny read him the book every night before bed. They had taken a picture of Callan asleep in his bed. Next to the nightstand was a picture of Rage and Callan playing. Rage had a fire truck and Callan had a police car, and they had both turned toward the camera and smiled when the picture was taken.
He really did look like her.
The same little bump in the nose and the same large, deep-set eyes. Sue mentioned in the letter that Callan referred to her as Aunt Sally and asked about her all the time.
Rage brought the picture closer and kissed his paper cheek. He was an incredibly sweet boy, and she felt lucky for having had the chance to meet him. He was in a good home. His parents loved him. She’d done the right thing. She wiped her eyes, sat up, and called, “Little Vinnie! Beast?”
There was no answer.
She pushed herself out of bed and made her way into the kitchen on wobbly legs. The counters were wiped clean, everything put away and in its place. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Little Vinnie could be found wearing an apron and cooking something at the stove.
Rarely left alone, she realized in that moment that she didn’t like the sound of silence. She looked at the clock above the sink. It was eight o’clock, already dark outside.
It took her a second to remember where they’d gone off to.
The warehouse. Aster Williams and his men were having a meeting tonight.
Panic welled inside of her.
Why didn’t they wake her before they left? What were they thinking? She wanted to be angry with them both, but she knew why they’d snuck out without her. She was sick, growing sicker every day, and they knew it. Her attempts to be strong 24-7 had not fooled them one iota. For the past few days, she’d forced herself to sing in the shower and keep her bedroom neat. She’d held her head high and her back as straight as possible when she walked. She’d been doing all she could to keep her food down.
And it had been for nothing, simply wasted effort.
She stood silently in the middle of the kitchen, wearing ragged sweatpants and a T-shirt a size too large. Her reflection in the stove top revealed a shell of a girl with hollowed eyes and a thinning face. She thought of Faith and how close they’d grown in such a short amount of time. Faith McMann, a fourth-grade schoolteacher, of all things, had become her friend and confidante. More than anything, Rage wanted to see her reunited with both of her children.
How could Beast and Little Vinnie have left her here when they knew how important tonight was to her? Her heart raced as she looked about the room. Her gaze settled on the key ring, especially on a particular key. The old Volkswagen Bug she used to drive was parked at the side of the house. Every once in a while Beast would start the engine, but she hardly ever drove it. Her doctors advised against it.
Screw that.
She refused to be left behind. She went back to her room. She slipped on a pair of old sneakers, put on her warmest hoodie, and grabbed the keys from the hook on her way out.
Rage opened the door, surprised to see Miranda standing on the other side. It took her a second to realize she wasn’t seeing things. It was Miranda, the young girl who had spent more than a year as a captive sex slave before escaping. Rage took in the greasy hair and dirty smudges on her face. Her shirt was torn, and overall she looked like shit. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I’m sorry. I had nowhere else to go.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Rage pulled her into her arms. When she took a step back she said, “We looked everywhere for you. You should have told us you were leaving, or at the very least let us know you were all right.”
“I never should have left without saying goodbye.” Miranda examined Rage with a keen eye before she asked, “Are you OK?”
“I’ve been better.” Rage wished she’d had more time to spend with Miranda when she’d been living with them. Rage should have paid more attention to the girl. Miranda had no one. Rage would have liked to have been a big sister to her. But time was a luxury she didn’t have.
Miranda looked at the keys in Rage’s hand. “Were you going somewhere?”
“I am. In fact, maybe you can help me start the car at the side of the house.”
Miranda nodded, then took a step in that direction before Rage stopped her. “Hold on,” Rage said. “I don’t want to be preachy or anything, but in the future don’t run away from the people who care about you.”
Miranda said nothing.
“Trust me,” Rage went on. “I know what I’m talking about. It’s not easy to find people who are willing to take you in and love you unconditionally. Beast and Little Vinnie . . . they care about you.”
“I didn’t want to be a burden to anyone. And, besides, I had a few things to take care of.”
Rage knew she’d been up to no good, but lecturing the girl seemed pointless.
“When I was living at the farmhouse, I promised Lara I would help her,” Miranda said. “I’ve let her down. I came back to apologize to all of you.”
“Like I said before, no reason to apologize. Don’t let it eat you up inside.” Mistakes. Rage had made her fair share of them. Most people did. But mistakes only served a purpose if people learned from them and made better choices the next time.
“I’ve seen the news,” Miranda said. “It looked to me as if people are taking a stand against these guys. I don’t want to be a bystander. I need to get involved.”
“Well, you came to the right person at the right time.” Rage put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on.”
Rage shut the door and locked it.
Miranda followed her around to the side of the house. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked when Rage struggled with opening the side gate.
Rage ignored her.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Little Vinnie and Beast are about thirty minutes away. The big showdown is happening in the next hour.”
The gate came open. Rage headed for the car with Miranda on her heels.
“Showdown?”
“Yeah, it’s a long story, but the gist of it is one of the ringleaders in the trafficking business is meeting with some important men at a warehouse in East Sacramento.”
“And they left without you?”
“Damn straight they did, and I’m pissed.”
“I can imagine.”
Rage remembered why she liked having Miranda around. “Beast and Little Vinnie decided not to wake me before they left. I know their hearts are in the right place, but I’m not happy with them. All of you people seem to think you can just walk out anytime you see fit. It’s not right.”
“I understand.” Miranda tried not to laugh when she saw the car. “That is the brightest color red I’ve ever seen.”
“Got a problem with the color?”
“No. I love it.”
“Well, good. Once I’m gone, the car is all yours.”
“I can’t take your car. That wouldn’t be right.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not right—dying too young from inoperable brain cancer. Do you want the car or not?”
“Wow,” Miranda said. “You really know how to use the whole dying thing to your advantage, don’t you?”
Rage smiled. “I take it that’s a yes.”
Miranda snorted.
Miranda and Beast are going to get along just fine, Rage thought as she slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine coughed and churned, then rattled and died. Rage pumped the gas, waited, turned the key. Nothing. Damn. She didn’t have time to adjust the valves.
“Can I do something?” Miranda asked through the window.
“I’m glad you asked. There is something you can do for me.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow.
“When I’m gone, I need you to take care of Beast and Little Vinnie. Can you do that?”
“You’re really sick, aren’t you?”
“Did you think I was faking it?”