Badass and the Beast: 10

by Shrum, Kory M.

  “Doe,” they taunted me. “Dodo bird, wait. We just want to talk.” Then they would laugh.

  I took out my house key and quickened my step. I tried to form a plan to get to my door, unlock it, and get inside before they caught up with me. Suddenly, someone yanked on my backpack and I almost lost my footing. Gene grabbed a fistful of my hair. I let my arms fall behind me so that the backpack slid off my shoulders. I turned toward Gene and shoved the heel of my hand upward into his nose. He let go of my hair and I ran.

  I rounded the corner of my street. The sidewalk separated the white picket fences from the dogwood trees lining the road. I could hear Gene screaming and Travis’s footsteps echoed mine. In the center of the sidewalk sat a large, fawn-colored puppy. She had a dark face, huge puppy paws at the end of long legs, and her head reached my waist even though she was sitting down. The puppy remained seated as I came closer, and she gave me a quick glance as I moved around her. Then I heard a growl that seemed to shake the ground beneath my feet, and Travis screamed so loud the birds flew from the trees. I ran to my front gate, opened it, and stepped inside the fence before I dared to look back. Travis was on the ground, lying perfectly still, and the puppy’s jaws were locked on his crotch.

  I ran to my door, quickly let myself in, and locked the door behind me. I watched through the window as Travis remained on the sidewalk with a large animal attached to his kibbles and bits. Gene was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, the puppy let go of Travis’s crotch and sat down at his feet. Travis cautiously picked himself off the sidewalk and gingerly walked away, backwards, keeping both eyes on the puppy. I watched him until he turned the corner. The puppy retrieved my backpack and sat in front of my fence, watching me watch her. She looked down the street then back at me and gave the fence a scratch.

  I walked across the yard and opened the gate. The puppy left my backpack on the sidewalk and waited for me on the front porch. I collected my things and went back inside, followed by the puppy. Inside the door, I bent down to pet her and a name flashed into my mind when I touched her: Willa. She walked right to my room and curled up on the rug next to my bed. And that was that.

  When my dad got home that night, he was not surprised to see Willa in my room.

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Willa,” I said, and I told him about my encounter with Gene and Travis.

  “You’ve got yourself quite the little protector here,” he said, rubbing her head.

  Willa walked me to school every morning for the next six years. When I got out of school each afternoon, she was there waiting for me. Gene and Travis didn’t have much to say to me after that. Even in school when Willa wasn’t around, they left me alone.

  Tonight, the club is dark and smoky. The dance floor consists of a rectangular open space in the middle of the room, but the artificial border keeps growing and growing as more and more people join in the dancing. I am one of them, sweating from the heat and movement, the bass causing my heart to echo its rhythm. I close my eyes and move, feeling the music pull us all together, tasting my own sweat as it rolls from my upper lip.

  Then I hear it.

  It comes to me like a word, or a single note of music. It’s very subtle at first, just a whisper of a whisper, but I can always hear it. It’s the call for help, but it’s not just for me; it’s for all of us. Even for you.

  I open my eyes and scan the room. Through the semidarkness and the smoke there is a lack of something—a void in a corner of the room. I reach out to my best friend, Daphne, and she already knows. She’s a believer. She follows.

  As I make my way across the dance floor, I can feel the other women in the club follow me. The call spreads through the air like smoke and by the time I reach the corner, I have an army.

  A man is facing away from us with his forearm on the wall, leaning in. A young woman is pinned in the corner, trying to pull free from the arm around her waist and struggling to stand upright.

  I don’t have to look behind me to see how many women there are. I can feel each of them. Not all the women in the club choose to help, and that’s all right. If only one woman chooses to help, that’s enough for me.

  I don’t speak to the man. I simply pull his arm from around the girl’s waist and step between him and his victim. I attempt to lead her out of the corner, but she stumbles and the man grabs my bicep.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he says, trying his charm out on me. “I was just getting started.”

  “You’re finished now,” I say, looking up at him. “Take your hand off me.”

  He laughs. “Or wha—” he turns to see almost seventy women standing behind me and he has his answer. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, glittery and high-heeled, with their arms crossed over their chests. A strong, beautiful militia.

  He lets go of my arm. Daphne moves closer and several women follow.

  “Get her to Willa,” I say.

  “On it,” Daphne says.

  “Stay with her.” I don’t even know why I say it. Daphne knows how to take care of people. About half of the women surround the girl like a security crew and walk her outside.

  I turn back to the man who is now pinned in the corner. The tables have turned.

  Before I can make my way back to him, a white scorpion appears on his arm. The scorpion means I have encountered this particular predator before and this is strike two for him. It means he is a bad, bad man. He doesn’t feel it of course, the small arachnid crawling up his arm. He does feel the sting on the side of his neck, but it paralyzes him before the scream can build in his throat. He falls to the floor and the scorpion fades into his skin.

  He’s not dead, unfortunately. It’s been my experience that this particular kind of lowlife doesn’t have a high redemption rate. He’s only going to get worse, hurt someone else, rob the world of a little bit of happiness. But who lives and who dies isn’t on me. I don’t get to make that choice.

  When the police get here, they will likely take him to a holding cell for the night. He will wake up in the morning feeling like he’d been run over by a street sweeper. His memory will be completely preserved so he’ll remember exactly what happened—what he did to that girl, what he tried to do to her. He will also have a permanent mark on his neck that will subconsciously repulse women. His own mother won’t be able to stand the sight of him. And he will know exactly why. Then he will likely face charges. After all, there are over seventy witnesses.

  “Stay with him,” I say to the crowd of women behind me. They stand guard over his body and I’m so proud of them.

  About thirty women are clustered in the parking lot, a cocoon of bodies surrounding the young girl, who is sitting on the pavement crying. Daphne is there with her and my full-grown American Mastiff is next to her. The girl has her arms wrapped around Willa and Willa is resting her chin on the girl’s shoulder. It’s Willa’s version of a hug.

  I give Willa a scratch on the head and she begins to separate from the woman.

  “What is your name?” I ask first, taking the girl’s hands in mine as I sit down in front of her.

  “Lacey,” she says. “I don’t know what happened. I was talking to him and then things got fuzzy. I tried…” she breaks down again and lets go of my hands to cover her face.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and lean closer to her.

  “Look at me,” I say. She drops her hands and lifts her eyes to meet mine. “This is not your fault.” I speak the words slowly; they are almost a command. “Lacey,” I say again. “This is not your fault. He is the one who did something wrong. Not you.”

  She nods and the sirens can finally be heard.

  “Hey, baby!”

  I close my eyes briefly as the irritation crawls over my skin. I am simply walking down the sidewalk with Willa. I continue to walk, ignoring the skag and hoping he will take the hint. He doesn’t.

  I don’t like these types of confrontations. I don’t like these types of men.

  “I’m talking to you, princess!”


  Willa stops and looks up at me. She’s judging me for not doing something. She’s right.

  The man is across the street, standing next to a bus stop bench. People who pass behind him hug the building a little closer. I just want to walk with Willa. I just want to be left alone.

  “Screw you!” he yells and throws his half-eaten burrito at me. It hits Willa on the side of her neck.

  I take in a deep breath. Willa’s tail begins to wag.

  She loves confrontation.

  A car is coming down the road and I wait for it to pass before crossing the street. I make eye contact as I walk toward him. His arms hang at his sides and he looks over his shoulders. Willa’s intimidating size has clearly made an impression. He takes a step back but the bench is there to keep him from moving too far. Willa lets out a breath that is almost a sigh.

  He’s a short man, much shorter than me, with dark hair and sad, middle-aged-man clothes. He reeks of ineptitude and sloth. I can taste the lifetime of failure that hangs in the air above him. I am certain he can taste the power folding around me.

  He takes a step toward me and stretches his hand out in front of him in an attempt to keep Willa away. Glaring at him and his feeble gesture, I step inside his personal space and shove my thumb in the front of his throat. He crumples to his knees, clutching at his neck and gasping for air. Willa stands to his side, her face less than an inch from his. Kneeling down to his level, I place my hand on the back of his neck. A small white scorpion appears there like a tattoo when I remove my hand. Then it disappears.

  “Women do not exist solely for your pleasure or entertainment,” I say, as he struggles to breathe. Willa growls a low, haunting warning and the man wets himself. “Do you understand?”

  He rocks his body back and forth in an exaggerated confirmation.

  “Learn some respect,” I say and leave him on the sidewalk, still coughing and gasping.

  Before I’m able to return to my apartment, I get a call on my cell phone. One of my neighbors is having some trouble with her boss. I steer Willa back downtown and tell my neighbor to hide or run away if she can.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” I say as I enter the office ahead of Willa. An older man in his late fifties is standing very still with a black scorpion on his shoulder. His head is turned so he can see it out of the corner of his eye.

  “Help me, please,” he whispers, sweat beading at his hairline. The room reeks of alcohol. The man’s eyes are bloodshot and heavy. He tries to stand still, but sways on his feet. He is not fully in control of himself.

  Several other people are in the room, keeping a safe distance from the man. They aren’t aware of the scorpion, so the man looks like a lunatic, staring at an invisible devil on his shoulder.

  A sturdy looking woman in her thirties huddles in a corner with mascara streaking her cheeks. Her name is Faith and she is the one who called me when her boss came in drunk and ranting. I step over to her and rest my hand gently on her back.

  “Are you injured? Do you need medical attention?” Faith shakes her head and I’m relieved. “Willa is here. She will not hurt you. She is going to keep you safe.” Willa crawls on her stomach closer to the woman and rests her head on Faith’s leg. I turn to her boss.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do at this point. Remind me of your name, Mr.—”

  “Seavey,” the man responds, still looking at the scorpion.

  “Right. And how long ago did you beat your wife unconscious, Mr. Seavey?”

  “Five weeks,” he says and lowers his head slightly.

  “I knew you’d remember.” I walk across the room and stand just a few feet in front of him. “It’s difficult to forget sending your wife to the hospital with a concussion because of your inability to control your anger, isn’t it? Do you remember what I told you that day we met?”

  “No,” he says, like a stubborn child.

  “Of course you don’t. If you did I wouldn’t be standing here and you wouldn’t be in this situation. You’ll remember everything about this meeting, I assure you.”

  His face gets really red and he balls his hands into fists at his sides.

  “There it is!” I say, pushing his emotional buttons a little. “There’s that anger I’ve heard so much about. It doesn’t take much to work you up, does it?”

  I turn to look at Faith in the corner.

  “What did you do to her?” I ask, knowing full well he was not going to give me any information.

  “What?” His eyes cut to the woman in the corner then back to the scorpion. “Who? I didn’t do anything.” He tries to keep as still as possible but the scorpion moves closer to his neck.

  I turn to the bystanders and extend my hand to each of them.

  “Hello,” I move from one person to another. “My name is Dolores. I was called here because your boss—he is your boss, right?” I don’t like to assume, but the corner office and the terrified staff gives me some clue that he supervises all of them and not just poor Faith. I receive several nods. “Your boss is quite the terrorizer. How many of you has he threatened or physically harmed?” Out of the fifteen people in the office and out in the hallway, all but three raise their hands. Men included.

  “Mr. Seavey, this is much worse than I thought.” I pull my cell out of my pocket and dial my friend Bernie at the precinct.

  “It’s Doe,” I say when Bernie answers. “I have another one for you. He’s a multiple offender. I’m sure he will be unconscious when you get here.”

  I turn to the bystanders and address them. “When the police get here, I’d like for you all to give a statement. Witnesses are very important in cases like this. Is everyone willing to participate?” I receive another round of nods and turn back to Mr. Seavey.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” I say to him.

  “You little bi—” he starts, but Willa’s bark cuts him off and she comes to stand directly between Mr. Seavey and me.

  “It’s all right,” I say, leaning over to scratch the back of her head. She looks back at me and I read her expression. “Yes, I’m sure. Go back to your friend. She needs you.” Willa huffs and her cheeks puff out. She walks in Mr. Seavey’s direction, making a big show of intimidation as she circles back around to the woman in the corner.

  Mr. Seavey lunges at me when Willa’s back is to him and the scorpion strikes. He’s out before he hits the ground.

  The staff members in the room gasp, but no one rushes over to help Mr. Seavey.

  I walk over to Faith and she is petting Willa absent-mindedly.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “He came in yelling and throwing things. That’s why I called you.” Faith’s apartment is in my building. I give my card to every woman I encounter.

  “Good. Your instincts are good. What happened after you called?”

  “I tried to leave, but he dragged me in here and started yelling at me. I couldn’t even understand most of what he was saying. Then he charged me and pushed me to the floor, but he stopped suddenly and started staring at his shoulder. I think he went crazy.”

  “He was already crazy,” I say. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  It’s Saturday night and Willa and I are sitting in the living room watching a movie. It is almost midnight, so I’m expecting a quiet evening. I’m already in my pajama pants when Willa raises her head from the couch and huffs at me. She jumps down and runs to wait for me by the door. I grab my shoes, a jacket, and my purse before walking outside.

  Willa bounds to the car. I’m slightly relieved that we aren’t running anywhere. Sometimes, Willa gets carried away and we end up running five or six miles to get to someone. I open the driver’s side door and Willa jumps in ahead of me and crawls into the passenger seat. I throw everything in the backseat and climb in. Once we’re out of the driveway, I turn to Willa who turns her head to the right and gives a small bark. Right it is.

  I drive away from town, toward the open fields of farmland and country r
oads. At a stoplight, Willa shifts her weight from one side to the other as her paws dig into the seat. I pull my cell phone from my purse in the backseat and call my friend Bernie.

  When the light turns green, Willa barks and I hit the gas. The cars are passing with less frequency the longer we drive.

  “Olds,” Bernie answers. Bernadette is a cop and one of my best friends. She is a rare, trusting soul. She doesn’t need a whole boatload of evidence or explanation in order to make a move. I’m not saying she’s like that in other parts of her job. She still has rules to follow and there’s always the law. But she doesn’t need much from me if someone is in trouble. If I call her while I’m on my way to a situation, she doesn’t ask for particulars because she knows I won’t have any. She just acts.

  “It’s Doe,” I say as Willa turns to the left and barks. I make the turn and note the road sign. “I’m on my way to a situation. I’ll keep you on speaker, but you might want to start heading this way. I just turned onto 27.”

  “Damn,” she says. “I’m on my way. Be careful. There’s been a guy in the area posing as a police officer pulling over women and raping them. I hope we’re just going to find someone who needs help changing a flat tire.”

  “I don’t usually get those kinds of calls, Bernie.”

  As I drive closer, I begin to hear it, the call for help, and I drive faster. Willa can hear it much earlier than I can. Dog hearing.

  I sometimes wonder what my purpose is. Am I supposed to stop bad things from happening? If that’s the case, why do I reach so many women too late? Is my purpose to catch the bad guy? I want to protect these women and stop the bad guys. Sometimes, I just want to punish the bad guys.

  There’s very little to see but acres and acres of corn fields and the occasional general store or gas station. It’s a clear night and the moon is bright in the sky. A full moon. People are always a little wild on nights like this. I drive for another five minutes as Willa whines in the seat next to me.