Breaking Free

by Jennifer Slattery

  Sweat beaded on Trent’s forehead as he watched Ed round the corner. The moment he disappeared, Trent lunged for the accent table and opened the drawer. He grabbed Ed’s checkbook, flipped to the back, and tore off a blank check. After tucking it into his back pocket along with the check Ed gave him, he sat back down. Wiping his hands on his pants legs, he concentrated on slowing his breathing.

  Ed returned, occupying the recliner once again. “Sorry about that.” His smile faded as he locked eyes with Trent. “How are things with you and Alice? Beth says she hasn’t been at Bible study in two weeks.”

  Trent averted his gaze. “We’re good. She’s just busy. Got a lot going on with the boys and all.” He looked at his watch and coughed into his fist. “I’m sorry to bust in and out like this, but I’ve really got to be going. Work’s been a bear.”

  Ed frowned. After an extended silence, he stood. “I hear ya. Another time, then.”

  “For sure.” He hurried to the door.

  “How about Friday?”

  He spun around. “Huh?”

  “How about this Friday? You, Alice, and the boys should come by for dinner.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to the boss-lady and let you know.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Saturday night, headlights flashed in Alice’s rearview mirror as a lowrider advanced, loud music pulsating from it. A blur of color moved through her peripheral vision as a red two-door drifted into her lane. She swerved, nearly sideswiping a motorcyclist to her left. The man flashed his lights and laid on his horn. She jumped and gripped the steering wheel tighter. Flashes of light blurred her vision as the overhead signs reflected the glare of each passing car.

  She strained to read the white lettering on the freeway signs nearly obliterated with graffiti, which grew more pronounced with each passing exit.

  With a quick check in her rearview mirror, she eased off the freeway and under the overpass. A man lay huddled in the shadows surrounded by shiny black garbage bags. A few feet away, two men gathered near a burned out streetlight dressed in dark clothing with bandanas tied around their heads. They looked up when Alice passed, sending a shiver down her spine.

  Death-gripping the steering wheel, she drove passed minimarts, liquor stores, and gas stations with security-encased windows and sagging roofs. The light turned red. She slowed to a stop next to a Conoco station packed with teenagers dressed in hoodies.

  The light turned green and she accelerated, continuing past two-story buildings with dark windows. She rounded an empty lot and shot a nervous glance toward the brick apartment complexes on either side of her. Another right followed by a quick left led her to a series of abandoned warehouses with boarded up windows and heavy metal doors. Three of the four streetlights lining the narrow road stood unlit, making it difficult to read the rusted numbers dangling from the abandoned buildings.

  She looked from her GPS to the slip of paper taken from Trent’s pants. In the dark, her eyes struggled to focus. Was this it? She searched for Trent’s Honda Civic among the few cars parked along the curb and hidden in the shadows. It was parked next to a pile of concrete blocks and metal pipes 200 feet down the street. He was here.

  What had Trent gotten himself into? Drugs? That would explain a lot.

  Cutting the lights, she turned the minivan around and parked behind a Dumpster.

  An engine hummed behind her. She sank down in her seat as a man in a Jeep Cherokee approached. He parked a few feet from a flickering streetlight and got out. His head jerked from side to side as he scanned the alley. Moments later, a pit bull climbed from the back of his vehicle, a thick metal chain around his neck. They dashed across the street and stopped in front of a dented metal door. The man glanced around a second time before raising a fist. He pounded the door twice, paused, then banged again, exactly two more times.

  Alice cracked her window, listening.

  The door opened to reveal a heavy-set man with tree-trunk arms. Angry barks, high-pitched yelps, and human shouts filled the air. She stretched her spine to see past the men into the warehouse. The doorman moved aside to allow the guy and the dog in. The door slammed shut behind them, blocking all sound.

  Alice held her breath, then lowered her window farther and strained her ears against the silence. A distant car hummed by. The angry shouts and growls were gone, replaced by ordinary city sounds, but she knew what she had heard.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned back against the headrest. Oh, Trent, what are you doing here?

  The screech-slam of a door opening then banging shut forced her eyes open. She turned to watch a wiry man with tattoos covering both arms like sleeves cross the alley, a plastic bag filled with a lump thrown over his shoulder. Alice shuddered as the streetlight illuminated his blood-splattered face. He opened his trunk, tossed the mound in, and slammed it shut. Then he left.

  Dog fighting?

  Nausea overwhelmed her and she opened the car door and leaned out. Taking in quick, deep breaths, she swallowed down the heave. She started the car and headed back toward the freeway on autopilot. At the first red light she came to, she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “I want to report a dog fight.”

  CHAPTER 20

  You really lucked out on that one, my man.” Dijon, a short, stocky kid with scarred knuckles and bloodstained jeans held out a wad of cash. Trent grabbed on to his winnings, but Dijon held tight.

  The kid licked his bottom lip. “How about making this cash grow? ’Cause I got a feisty little two-year-old about to do major damage. Killer ain’t lost a fight yet.”

  Trent rubbed a knuckle against his bottom lip and watched a pair of muscular dogs attached to thick chains walk past. The $500 he’d just won was great, but another $500 would be even better.

  He glanced at the fighting pen at the other end of the warehouse. Men pressed against the wooden planks, punching fists into the air. Bellowing voices merged with deep-throated growls. There was a flash of fur, followed by a high-pitched yelp as Maniac, a three-year-old pit bull sank his jagged canines into his opponent’s throat.

  A loud crash made Trent jump. He turned to watch a mob of uniforms surge the room.

  “Seattle Police Department! On the ground, now!”

  People and dogs scattered in every direction. Some fell prostrate with their hands behind their heads. Others dove for boarded-up windows, fingers scraping at the rotting wood. Dijon dropped the wad of cash and bolted down a dark, narrow hallway. Trent grabbed the money and followed through the hall, up an unlit stairwell, and around the corner. The shouting behind him dimmed with each panicked step until he found himself in an empty room.

  Gasping, he searched the shadows for Dijon. His gaze landed on a dark frame scurrying up a metal ladder beneath a busted window. Lengthening his stride, Trent raced toward him.

  Dijon draped his arms around the final ladder rung and kicked the glass with the heel of his boot, sending the remaining window fragments flying.

  Following close behind, Trent wiped his sweaty hands on his pants legs then gripped the cold metal. His heart pounded. His lungs burned. Muscles quivering, he clamored up the ladder and teetered at the top. He swung his leg over the sill. Glass shards tore through his clothes and scraped his skin. Metal clanked as he landed on the fire escape.

  Twenty feet below him, Dijon hit the ground running. Trent followed, descending the fire escape as fast as his legs allowed. He leapt off the last step, landing on the cement with a jarring thud. Ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his ankle, he fell into a full-on sprint. At a backstreet, Dijon turned left. Trent raced right, heading down another alley. He dove behind a Dumpster and waited.

  A police car drove by, lights dimmed. Trent held his breath. An hour turned into two. Everything went quiet. Faint light streamed from a single pole on the corner. After another 30 minutes of silence, he rose onto stiff and shaky legs, wiped the sweat from his face, and ran, dodgin
g from one shadow to the next, toward his car.

  He huddled behind another Dumpster until his breathing slowed and his racing heart dulled to a pulsating throb. Exhaling, he reached into his front pocket and closed a trembling hand around his newly multiplied wad of cash. He’d been lucky. Very lucky. A few more nights like this and he’d have Jay—and the long line of creditors lighting up his cell phone—off his back for good.

  Gravel crunched on the driveway, followed by the shutting of a door. Alice hit the mute button on the television remote, stood, and held her breath. Was it the cops? Had Trent been arrested? Closing her eyes, she brought a trembling hand to her temple. She’d called the police on her own husband. But what else could she do? Besides, he’d brought this on himself. Those poor creatures, tearing each other limb from limb, to be tossed into a garbage sack once their scarred and beaten frames succumbed to death. She shuddered even now to think about it. But with Trent in prison . . .

  With a deep breath, she walked to the front door. She prepared herself for the humiliation that was sure to come when the cops described her husband’s horrific acts, but the familiar sound of clanking keys stopped her. Before she could process everything, she stood face to face with Trent. His hair stood in matted clumps. Tiny specks of blood clung to the bottom of his shirt. Alice swallowed down a rush of bile.

  “How did you . . .” She clamped her mouth shut. If she said anything, asked anything, he would know what she had done. Balling her hands into fists, she spun around and stormed into the living room. Trent’s footsteps followed.

  “Sorry I’m late. I should have called.”

  Alice spun around. The man was totally clueless.

  A hint of a smile lifted his lips. “I’ve got something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. His grin widened, bunching his whiskered cheeks, as he held it out.

  Alice’s mouth went dry. Her mind replayed the horrid images she had seen, and a few she’d imagined in rapid, blurring succession. How many dogs had died for that money? She stepped backward and brought a fisted hand to her mouth.

  His eyes darkened. “What? You’re not going to take it now? After all your nagging about having no grocery money? Unbelievable.” He threw the money onto the floor, jerked around, and stomped off to their bedroom.

  The door slammed behind him.

  Her eyes burned as she stared at the wad of cash lying on the carpet. She needed that money. Her boys needed that money. And even though everything in her revolted at the thought, she picked it up with a trembling hand. Closing her eyes, she tucked the crumpled cash into her back pocket.

  CHAPTER 21

  Alice spread the newspaper across the counter and searched the want ads for jobs that didn’t require past experience or a formal education. If she could find one that paid more than minimum wage, even better. Although, after 19 years of “housewifery,” she’d be lucky to get hired at all.

  She finished circling a telemarketing position when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. Beth. This was the third time she’d called this week. And there was no point hitting the ignore button. She’d call back again and again and again until Alice answered. Besides, annoyed or not, she felt guilty for blowing her off.

  “Hello?” She lightened her tone to hide her irritation.

  “Alice, how are you?”

  That was a loaded question. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “I haven’t seen you in a while and we still need to nail down those discussion questions for the ladies lunch.”

  She sighed. “Right. How about I send you an email later this afternoon.”

  A pause.

  “You’re not turning hermit on me, are you? We missed you at Bible study last week.”

  Alice continued to scan the classified ads, circling those that looked promising. “Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy.”

  More silence.

  “Are you coming tomorrow? We’re starting a new unit on the all-sufficiency of Christ.”

  She focused on an ad for a nurse’s aide position. It paid well, and offered full-time hours, although it probably required special training. “I’m not sure. I’d like to . . .” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “I’ll certainly try.”

  Another awkward pause.

  “I . . . What are you doing this afternoon?”

  Alice cleared her throat to buy herself time. “I have . . . I’m sorry, Beth, but can I call you back? I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.” Like trying to plan the rest of my life.

  “Of course.”

  Ending the call, Alice set the phone down and planted her elbows on the counter, dropping her head between her hands.

  I need a 20-year rewind.

  Trent put his car in park and fixed his gaze on the moss-covered brick wall in front of him. At 11 o’clock, only a handful of cars filled the bank lot. Maybe the lack of crowds would ease his anxiety, not that anything could make robbing your best friend easy.

  Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out the neatly folded check he’d forged so carefully a few weeks ago. Hopefully Ed hadn’t noticed it was missing. The way he and Beth shared checkbooks, and her tendency to be less than conscientious with record keeping, there was a good chance he hadn’t. Yet. And even if he had, he’d never suspect Trent of taking it.

  Right?

  That was the chance he had to take. He’d initially tucked the check into his wallet, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it, that he’d hit a streak of luck. But here he was, broke again.

  He set the check on the passenger seat and wiped sweaty hands on his pant legs. After another two breaths, he picked it up and stepped out. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he walked across the parking lot, his lungs tightening despite his focused, methodical breathing. What if they questioned the authenticity of the check? What if Ed found out? Trent would deny it. Besides, he’d rather deal with Ed and his seventy-times-seven forgiveness than Jay and his show-no-mercy thugs.

  Countless other potential problems raced through Trent’s mind, but he shoved them aside. Worry showed, and he needed to put on his poker face.

  Adrenaline surged as he gripped the door handle.

  “My man! Where you been?”

  He froze at the familiar voice. He turned around to find Rick standing two feet behind him with his head angled and his forehead creased.

  Trent thought quickly. “Been going full steam ahead, pedal to the metal, doing my thing from the home front.” He flashed a grin that remained skin deep. After going over every possible scenario in his mind, he came up with an excuse that, if spun correctly, could quite possibly get him his job back. If Rick repeated it, which he would. One thing Trent learned early on, never assume bridges had burned until you saw the ashes. Even then, look for a fire extinguisher before grabbing the shovel.

  “Yeah? ’Cause I heard you walked out. Up and quit on us.”

  “Nah.” He waved his hand. “You must have heard wrong. You know how rumors fly.” He looked at his watch in an effort to appear busy. The last thing he needed right now was Rick riding him over the green he owed him and his friends. Not that he could dodge that one. They were at a bank, of all places.

  Rick smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. Those guys can sure tell it, huh?” He looked at Trent’s hand white-knuckling the shiny brass handle and motioned for him to open it. “You going in, or have they given you door duty?”

  Trent squeaked out a chuckle, swinging the door wide, then stepped aside to let Rick through. He swallowed hard, scanning the nearly empty lobby. So much for his, “The bank’s too busy for me right now. I’ll have to come back later,” excuse. He glanced at his watch one more time as his mind raced for a solution—anything to get Rick off his back.

  “Glad to see you here, though.” Rick pulled a pen from his front pocket and twirled it between his fingers. “Been running short on cash lately—my girl’s got some big shindig coming up she needs a new dress for.”

  “Yeah, Alice is always finding reas
ons to go shopping, too.”

  Three young cashiers stood behind the long mahogany counter. The lady on the right had dark, silky hair tucked into a low-riding bun. Thin glasses rested on top of her tiny nose, her pink blouse crisply pressed. Likely her work was as meticulous as her appearance. He would have to avoid her.

  The lady in the middle appeared more relaxed, if her soft, V-neck sweater and long, dangling earrings were any indication. But neither of them looked as laid back as the woman manning the far booth near the vault doors. Dressed in a flashy red and orange blouse with wide, swooping sleeves, the brunette’s high-pitched laugh could be heard from the other end of the room. Yep. She was the one.

  He stepped in her direction, but Rick grabbed his arm.

  “So you think I can get that money you owe me? And for the fellas? They’ve been hounding me pretty hard.”

  His jaw tightened. He hadn’t even cashed his check, and already it was as good as gone. If only he’d made it out for more, but not knowing how much money Ed had in his accounts, $500 seemed the safest way to go.

  “What do I owe you all?”

  “Total?” Rick scrunched his face and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, you owe me $70, and I think Scott said you owe him $50.” He paused. “Don’t remember how much TJ said you owed him. How many hands did you lose?”

  Trent grimaced. “I don’t know.” Like he really kept a running record of losses. Get real. “But I got your $70 and Scott’s $50.” Although $120 swallowed a hefty chunk, it still left him $375. “Then, if you could ask TJ how much I owe him”—which tripled what he owed the others combined—“I’ll get that to you next week.” If he saw him next week, which was unlikely. Trent would make sure of that.