When She Was Bad

by Cynthia Luhrs

  “Sorry?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I swear you don’t even know your own name sometimes. Go ahead and take your break before we get busy again.”

  I flicked off the light and shut down my register before making my way to the back of the store. At first it had been hard to handle the plastic grocery bags every day—they reminded me of Bruiser—but I’d pushed my distaste down and could now handle them without feeling ill.

  The employee exit was located at the end of a utilitarian hallway, past the bathrooms and entrance to the meat department, where it opened next to the loading dock. The door swung open, and I blinked at the brilliant day then turned my face upward like a flower, the warmth soaking into my skin, the smell of freshly cut grass mingling with the fumes from the idling truck.

  The small grassy area contained two rusted turquoise metal chairs and a picnic table, the boards weathered and worn to a driftwood gray. The heat from the wood seeped into my jeans as I sat there, sneakers off, rubbing my feet, grateful for a break.

  How quickly I’d grown accustomed to my new life. Life. Death. It was a cycle. The leaves crumbled to dust, then were carried away on the wind to decompose and nourish new life. For the past month I’ve stayed put in the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as Avid, Kansas, trying to figure out who I am and what the hell to do with my life. It was the third week in June, full summer, with no sign of the heat breaking.

  There was a guy I used to work with. He lost his job, and a few months later I heard he was undergoing treatment for exhaustion at some facility. The loss of his job, so tied to his identity, left him untethered to the world, unable to cope. He was found a little after midnight in the snack aisle of the Harris Teeter wearing nothing more than a pair of red sequined ladies’ undies, drinking wine from the bottle while he munched on cheddar-ranch chips.

  While I didn’t miss my corporate job, I did miss the calling that followed, desperately. I too was suffering some kind of loss of purpose, identity.

  As I sat there, staring off into space, scratching at the edge of the table with my pink thumbnail, a truck pulled in from the Blesser meatpacking plant. One of the many trucks bringing food to people who’d long ago lost the ability and desire to hunt and grow their own food. It backed into the middle spot of the loading dock, the beeping mingling with the bird singing in a nearby tree. Next to it sat one of the small Grab-and-Go trucks, which was really more like an oversized van, used to make home deliveries. It was almost loaded and ready to go.

  Home deliveries. It was funny: I remembered my grandparents getting home deliveries when I was little and lived with them in Kansas, only about an hour and half from here. Then delivery service went away, replaced by busy moms darting into grocery stores on the way home from work. Fast-forward fifty years and online companies and grocery stores looking to differentiate themselves had started delivering again. In time, everything comes around again.

  At the Grab-and-Go, our tagline was Great food at a great price, when you’re on the run. Perfectly summed up most people’s busy lives.

  The buzzing in the pocket of my smock made me sigh. Five minutes left on my break. The high ponytail had come loose, the wind blowing the now auburn strands into my face. As I redid my ponytail, tying a floral scarf around the elastic, the sound of a hose made me turn my head. The last of the boxes unloaded, one of the guys had a broom and another was holding the hose. Neither noticed me; the truck blocked me from their view as they worked, and the sound of the broom scraping against the metal and the whoosh of the water mingled together discordantly. And as I watched, the water ran red out of the back of the truck, swirling down a drain set into stained concrete, the smell of bleach heavy in the air. A niggling sense told me it was time to get back to work just as my phone buzzed. Only three more hours until my shift ended.

  After clocking out for the day, I grabbed a rotisserie chicken for dinner along with a bag of salad.

  “Hi, cows.” I grabbed the bags and hadn’t even put the key in the door when the meowing sounded, annoyed and insistent. Midnight greeted me every time I came home, eager to see me, acting like I’d been gone for days instead of hours. The tiny black kitten I’d found in Buxton, in a soggy cardboard box behind a dune on the beach, had filled out and grown over the past couple of months.

  Since I’d been here I hadn’t been as obsessive about locking my doors. I never used to lock the doors, not even when I went shopping, but then I changed and knew how easy it was to get into someone’s home, so now I locked up tight. Though over the past week I’d found myself opening the windows and leaving the door unlocked when I was on the patio. Maybe I was changing, becoming normal again?

  The meow sounded more insistent. After I petted him, Midnight sat down next to my feet, his head bobbing up and down, scenting the air. That cat could out-sniff a bloodhound or drug dog any day, and chicken was his absolute, hands-down favorite treat.

  “Okay, okay, let me fix a plate and I’ll give you a piece.”

  The cat wound around my legs, meowing like he was starving as I cut up the chicken and prepared a quick salad with tomatoes from my tiny garden outside the patio door. I turned on the news and took my plate outside. Midnight jumped into the chair next to me and patted my arm with a paw.

  As I tossed him a bite of chicken, a few words caught my attention, and I turned, the fork clenched so tightly in my fist that it looked like a skeleton instead of a flesh and blood hand.

  “Senator George Johnson was found dead in his home. The cause of death was a heart attack.” The voice droned on but I didn’t hear anything else.

  The fork slipped out of my hand, clattered to the ground, and scared Midnight, who jumped. He swished his tail and stalked off into the grass. Something within rolled over as I froze and waited. I didn’t know how long I sat there, but finally the darkness yawned and went back to sleep.

  The chicken was cold, so I reheated it as I stared out at the meadow. I’d found the small cottage on the outskirts of town three days after I arrived. It had appealed to me because it sat in the middle of a meadow with cows all around, along with a few chickens. The farmer who rented it to me told me it had been built for his daughter, but she’d decided to move away and work in Dallas. It was a small farm, more of a hobby than anything for profit. The farmer was widowed, and waved if he saw me, but otherwise left me alone, which I appreciated. Across the meadow and creek were my only other neighbors, a single mother and her daughter. It was a far enough walk that I hadn’t made my way over yet to say hello, and neither had they—the perfect neighbors, in my opinion.

  Back outside, the steam rose off my plate as I sipped the wine, waiting for my meal to cool. A furry paw tapped my bare thigh to get my attention.

  “It’s hot.” I blew on the meat before I gave him another morsel. Midnight took the offering, carried it over to the mat outside the patio door, and ate it. My dinner forgotten, the events of the past washed over me.

  CHAPTER 6

  PULLING THE TRIGGER IS PART of the job, much like going to an office and shuffling papers. Do the job, go home, and get a good night’s sleep. Ryder Maddox took a sip of his coffee and watched his target. In his line of work, the pay was obscenely high to correspond to the relatively short life span of his chosen profession. It was all about the level of risk.

  Ryder eased the rifle down, no longer watching her through the scope as she passed through the rooms of the small house set in the middle of a meadow. After everything she’d done, he’d have thought she’d been more paranoid, not leaving the curtains open, even if the closest house was too far away to see in her windows. He would have dropped a Franklin betting on her, so sure she’d become cautious, yet there she was, walking from the kitchen to the living room, wearing a t-shirt and shorts. The scope brought her close as he watched her mouth moving for a minute before he turned on the radio, scanning channels until he found the satellite station, the guy lamenting being unsteady.

  From North Carolina to Kansas he’d fo
llowed her as she drove, at times seeming to pick random highways. At first he thought she was being careful, until he realized Hope didn’t have a clue what to do or where to go. He should have pulled the trigger instead of giving her a second chance and leaving behind a shell, her identity cut away and left behind at the North Carolina beach house.

  In Kansas, he’d watched, waited, his reputation on the line, and his employer furious, although somewhat mollified when Ryder paid the senator’s fee for the contract. The first job not completed in his history with the Organization. Being the best did have its perks. For a week he’d scrutinized her every move, looked for signs she hadn’t taken his threat seriously. Every day she went to work, came home, and built up her walls, kept her distance, all the while branding herself as even more of an outsider. What had possessed her to pick this speck of a town? Hope hadn’t made any friends other than a scrawny, nosy little kid that somehow reminded him of how she must’ve been. Before.

  Traumatic events left a mark, as he well knew. Hope had repressed what had happened to her, lived a seemingly normal life until she snapped several months ago. While he didn’t fault her for what she had done, he’d stepped in when she played in his sandbox. Had she overcome whatever demons haunted her? Or was this isolated life she’d created for herself another way to repress the part of her that craved destruction and death? Good luck with that.

  During his lifetime, Ryder had known a great many killers, some pure, unadulterated evil, while others acted out of some deep desire or trauma. Hope? It was as if she’d gone temporarily insane, the events of her past slamming into her one day, upending her carefully structured existence, and sending her down a path of no return. No, he wouldn’t label her a murderer, more of a social vigilante.

  While he and his colleagues accepted whatever contracts were assigned, women, men, and occasionally children. Good or bad, it didn’t matter, a job was a job. But not Hope Jones. Now going by Hope Rache thanks to him. She had named herself Justice, living by her own rules, and for that he respected her, no matter the trouble she’d caused.

  The zipper of the case holding the rifle was loud over the soft music in the heavily modified Cayenne. The name he’d chosen for her was fitting—had she figured it out? The phone vibrated, interrupting his thoughts. Ryder took the call, always answered the call from his contact at the Organization.

  “The next job is waiting, Mr. Maddox.”

  “Go.” As he sat there, listening to the details, committing them to memory, hidden between the trees and tall grass, Ryder rolled down the window, enjoying the breeze and sun on his skin. If he had a choice, he always accepted jobs located in warmer locales.

  Dolores ended the offer with the amount of the contract. Nice. Once he reached twenty-five million, he was out. Buying an island and living off the grid. This job would make a hefty addition to his growing bottom line.

  With one last look at Hope in the rearview, Ryder decided he’d check on her once more. Perhaps she would be one of the few where he did not have to make good on his promise. Only twice had he made such promises, and both times the men ended up dead. Might she be different, live up to her name? He could hope.

  CHAPTER 7

  THERE WAS NO ONE ABOUT yet, the early morning silent and still as I ran down the narrow road from the cottage past the farmer’s house, and onward, past meadows and trailer parks, welcoming the sunrise. There was a time I hated exercise, but I’d gone through a spell of restlessness and the only thing that helped was running, so I ran, needing the exertion like some people needed coffee to get going.

  Now I was hard. Long and lean, the joy of eating long gone, replaced by nothing more than providing the fuel my body required. The physical exhaustion running provided kept the darkness at bay, though it wasn’t helping with the lost time. The episodes had become more and more frequent. I’d drive home and not know how I got there until I found myself parked in the driveway. Or I’d miss the turn to work, the place I went every day, and find myself in the next town.

  The joggers out early, pounding the pavement in the rain, heat, or snow—I used to laugh at them, call them hamsters on a wheel, but now I’d become one of them. When I ran around the back of the cottage and pushed open the sliding glass door, Midnight greeted me with an annoyed meow.

  “All right already. I’ll feed you, then I’m going back to sleep.”

  He settled down to eat while I jumped in the shower before crawling back in bed. The crisp sheet over me, I was almost asleep when I felt soft fur under the covers, tickling my legs. The vibration of his purring kept the slumbering predator inside me at bay, safely locked behind the door in my head I’d not only nailed shut but secured with chains. I’d made it another day without letting the blackness break down that door, a full fifty-one days. Today was the first day of summer. How long would it last before I broke?

  That afternoon I went into town to pick up a few things. As I was staring at the wine, I sensed someone watching me.

  “I can’t believe it. Katherine Jones? From high school?”

  My mouth smiled but my eyes were cold as I scanned the area to see if anyone else had heard him.

  “Sorry, do we know each other?”

  He had that all-American guy look, with brown hair bleached dirty blond from the sun and warm brown eyes which reminded me of the cows outside my house. I looked for any sign of his identity but came up empty.

  “Chris Foster. We went to school together.” He set the case of beer on the floor. “I was sorry to hear about your grandparents. What are you doing in Avid?”

  I still couldn’t place him, but then again, as much of my past as I’d tried to block out, it was no wonder.

  “I go by my middle name now. Hope. And it isn’t Jones, it’s Rache. Hope Rache.”

  “You’re married?” He looked around as if my fake husband would appear at any moment.

  “Not now.” Which was true. I wasn’t married, nor had I ever been.

  “So you live here in town?” Chris smiled. “I’d love to buy you dinner. Catch up.”

  The more he talked about what he’d been doing since high school, a vague picture formed in my head of a quiet guy with glasses.

  “I needed to get away.” I wave my hand around as I put another bottle of wine in the cart. My bare legs were cold so close to the refrigerated section of the beer and wine. “I work at the Grab-and-Go. What are you doing here? Thought you’d be working in Wichita or somewhere.”

  His jeans were faded and the red t-shirt fit him perfectly, but as much as I’d like the distraction, it was a bad idea.

  “My parents divorced. Dad lives here and now he’s got Alzheimer’s, so I moved here to be close and help him. Try to let him stay in his own place as long as possible.” He shrugged. “I’m working at Blesser. The money’s good even if the job isn’t.”

  “It’s a good thing what you’re doing.” I put two more bottles of wine in the cart and nodded at him. “I’m pretty busy right now, but let’s catch up in a few weeks or so.” I didn’t bother to give him my number as I practically ran to the checkout.

  “I’ll come by the Grab-and-Go. It was good to see you, Kat—um, I mean Hope,” he called out as I fled.

  You can take care of him so he doesn’t tell anyone your real name, the voice whispered as I drove home, churning up dust, twenty miles over the speed limit.

  Between running errands, cleaning, doing laundry and losing time, the day was shot. As I carried my salad out to the patio, I smiled at the old wrought iron table. It was here when I’d moved in and looked like it had been painted several times. Through the cracks I could see turquoise, white, and now a faded mint green. The top was glass, and I set down the chintz plate and cup with a floral cloth napkin I’d sewn one night when I couldn’t sleep. My machine sat in the living room on a painted table waiting for me. A Mason jar full of wildflowers from the meadow and the table was perfect. I eyed it and dashed back inside, coming out with a candle in a jar. With the television on for ba
ckground noise, I sat back, watching the sky change colors.

  The salad was one of those mixes in a bag. I hadn’t gotten settled in time to grow my own, so I picked up a few bags a week.

  Last week I’d tried eating a hamburger and found I could stomach it as long as it was well done. The smell of cooking meat still bothered me, but not to the extent it had before. What a fiasco. Grayson, an animal control officer in my apartment complex, and a friend—well as much as I could have a friend—had invited me to a barbecue in the winter on a nice day. But the aroma of the hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill brought back memories of Aidan, when I burned him up. I’d heaved my guts and told everyone I was coming down with something.

  Hopefully this was another sign I was healing, moving on. As I ate my salad with shaved parmesan, tomatoes from the garden, and cucumbers, I heard the news lady put on her serious voice. I should have turned the damn thing off, but I just had to listen.

  She said, “Better check your bagged salad—there’s a high risk of salmonella, one of the most common causes of food poisoning, according to authors of a new study.”

  My half-eaten salad looked okay to me, but I put the fork down and went inside to listen as she went on.

  “A new study found juice from damaged leaves on greens such as arugula, lettuce, and spinach dramatically increased the risk of salmonella. The smallest amounts of juice in the moist, prepackaged salad massively stimulated growth of the bacteria.”

  The woman grimaced. “Even thoroughly washing the leaves didn’t remove the bacteria, so researchers say it’s best to eat the salad the day it’s opened. The bacteria grows even faster in the opened refrigerated bags.”