A Dangerous Affair

by Jason Melby

  "You'd have to ask her yourself."

  "We will as soon as she's able to talk," said Agent Niles.

  "She's still alive?"

  "She's in critical condition," said Agent Donavan, "but still very much alive. Are you surprised?" He turned his head when he heard a muffled whimper above the sound of the washing machine noise. "Is there anyone else in the house?"

  Blanchart waited patiently for the right opportunity to present itself, holding back the urge to do what came natural. "Just us girls."

  Agent Donavan signaled to his partner, who stepped forward. "Let's take a ride, Sheriff."

  "Now?"

  "You have someplace else to be?"

  "I'm the sheriff in this town. I have everywhere else to be."

  Agent Donavan circled the kitchen island. For the first time, he noticed a trace of blood on the back of the sheriff's sleeve. "You've got something on your sleeve." He pointed with his index finger. "By your wrist."

  Blanchart looked down. "I cut my finger."

  "Which one?" asked Agent Niles. "We're going to need you to come with us."

  Agent Donavan held his hand out. "I need you to surrender your service weapon."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "If you'll surrender your weapon..."

  Blanchart unbuckled his holster strap and relinquished his duty pistol. He pinched his fingers above his nose and looked down, pretending to stifle the onset of a teary breakdown. "I need a second," he said, stepping away from the men to enter the pool bathroom.

  "Stop right there," said Agent Niles. He reached for his own service weapon, but Blanchart's uncanny quickness prevailed.

  Before either agent could react to the imminent threat, Blanchart drew the silenced .22 and cycled the trigger twice, shooting both men through the heart.

  Smoke curled from the muzzle.

  Blanchart stepped over the bodies and shot each man in the head two more times for good measure. Then he tore open the lower space inside the kitchen island and hauled Samantha out by her hair. He pressed the hot muzzle to her ear. "Where is he?"

  "Right here!" Lloyd shouted from the pool bath entrance. He threw a carving knife end-over-end at Blanchart but the handle landed first.

  Blanchart raised the gun at Lloyd.

  Samantha knocked it away.

  Lloyd charged at Blanchart, slamming the sheriff against the counter. He pummeled the sheriff with a flurry of elbows and fists before Blanchart pulled his hickory baton and jabbed it at Lloyd's solar plexus.

  Lloyd retreated and grabbed a two-quart sauce pan from the dish rack. He swung the pan at Blanchart's face and nicked his chin.

  Blanchart cracked his baton against Lloyd's head.

  Lloyd slipped in a pool of blood and tripped over Agent Donavan's body.

  "Drop it!" Samantha shouted. Her hands trembled around the checkered composite grip of Blanchart's duty weapon.

  "You're not going to shoot me," Blanchart taunted her. He lunged with the baton.

  Samantha fired randomly, punching holes in the walls and ceiling before Blanchart knocked the gun away and threw her to the ground.

  Lloyd grabbed Agent Donovan's gun and turned it on Blanchart. "Last chance."

  Blanchart raised the baton in a fit of rage.

  Lloyd emptied the clip at Blanchart's body and watched the sheriff collapse in front of him.

  Samantha covered her ears. "Stop it!" she shouted, unable to hear her own words.

  Lloyd snatched the car keys from Blanchart's pocket. He stared through a window overlooking the pool and the utility shed near the back of the property line. "Did you check the shed?"

  "What shed?" Samantha yelled above the ringing in her ears.

  Lloyd grabbed her hand and ran outside. He entered the open storage space and stared at a toppled workbench with an old bullet press and an assortment of dirty surgical tools wrapped in a bloody rag.

  He shoved the workbench aside and moved the heavy plywood to reveal the makeshift coffin beneath.

  Samantha covered her mouth at the ghastly sight of a body wrapped in a plastic sheet.

  Lloyd tugged at the sheet around the head. "It's not her," he said, wincing at Marvin Tate's dead face. "Let's go..."

  "What about Jamie?"

  "We'll find her," Lloyd said convincingly as he led Samantha around the house and back toward the driveway.

  "Look out!" Samantha shouted when she saw Blanchart charge from the opposite side, doused from the automatic sprinklers.

  Lloyd exchanged shots with Blanchart.

  Samantha caught a high pressure round in the eye. The bullet ruptured her socket and lodged at the back of her brain.

  Lloyd fired the last round from Agent Donavan's gun and dove inside the sheriff's cruiser to unlock the Remington pump-action from the center mounting post. He racked the shotgun to chamber the first shell as bullets peppered the windshield.

  "It's over!" Blanchart shouted across the driveway in his Level II vest and reloaded.

  Lloyd rolled away from the sheriff's cruiser and ducked behind the state police car for a better angle. He fired consecutive volleys from the pump-action twelve-gauge, striking Blanchart in the arm. "That's for Samantha," Lloyd shouted with venom in his veins.

  Blanchart fired back off-balance at Lloyd who charged his position.

  "Drop it!" Lloyd demanded.

  Blanchart tossed the silenced .22. His arm bled profusely through his uniform sleeve. "You don't have the balls to finish this."

  Lloyd rammed the shotgun's business end at Blanchart's chest, branding a small circle above the sheriff's badge. Water rained down on both men. "Where is she?"

  Blanchart laughed. "Pull the trigger and you'll never see her again."

  The faint wail of police sirens grew louder.

  Lloyd pressed his boot on Blanchart's injured arm. "Where is she?"

  Blanchart endured the pain. "This falls on you."

  Lloyd shifted more weight on his foot. "Wrong answer."

  "I decide who lives and dies," Blanchart growled.

  Lloyd eased the shotgun barrel in Blanchart's mouth. "Not if I can help it." He squeezed the trigger and heard the click of an empty chamber.

  Blanchart laughed with his mouth around the barrel.

  Lloyd pumped the firearm and fired again to produce the same result. Out of time and out of options, he slammed the shotgun stock at Blanchart's face and knocked him cold. Then he commandeered the sheriff's bullet-ridden cruiser and tore out of the driveway in reverse, crushing the mailbox as he centered the wheel and peeled away from the secluded subdivision.

  He fiddled with the police radio, his fingers smeared with blood not his own, and accelerated hard to distance himself from the carnage he left behind. His own anger had got the better of him in a moment of vengeance. In reality he had nothing to gain by killing Blanchart. And little to convince himself Jamie was still alive.

  He'd witnessed more bloodshed in twenty-four hours than he had after ten years in prison. His gut feelings taught him when to fight and when to leave well enough alone. He'd fought for Jamie to the best of his ability without regard for the consequences of his actions. Now he blamed himself for her predicament, knowing nothing he could do would bring her back.

  Distracted by a thump thump thump coming from the rear of the car, he adjusted the volume on the police radio and tried to discern the origin.

  A flat? A busted tailpipe?

  The pounding persisted. Too soft for a flat tire. Too random for a pebble in the tread. Too loud to be his imagination.

  He slowed the car.

  The thumping stopped for a moment, then continued.

  Thump thump thump thump thump...

  This time he sat bolt upright and pulled to the shoulder. He jammed the transmission in park and jumped out.

  He popped the trunk and found Jamie bound and gagged with her arms and legs covered in welts, her terrified eyes staring back at him with a rag taped inside her mouth.

  Chapter 72<
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  Jamie opened the first aid kit from the glove box of her husband's police cruiser. "I thought I was dead..."

  She stared at the trees flying by outside the shattered window. Wind turbulence whipped her hair about her face. Glass fragments littered the bullet-ridden seat. The acrid smell of hot ethylene glycol carried through the dashboard vents from a punctured radiator grill.

  Lloyd checked his mirrors to spot the entourage of flashing lights from the law enforcement vehicles traveling in the opposite direction. "We have to get you to a hospital."

  Jamie dabbed hydrocortisone ointment on her face and neck. "That's the first place he'll look."

  "I never gave up on you," Lloyd professed.

  Jamie touched his arm. "How long before he finds us?"

  "He won't," said Lloyd, convinced of his own veracity from the passing euphoria of finding Jamie alive and his steadfast determination to keep her that way. He detoured from the main road and drove to the Winn-Dixie strip mall near the interstate.

  "Where are we going?"

  "We need to ditch this ride."

  Jamie leaned across her seat and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I wouldn't be here if you hadn't done what you did for me."

  "I'm just glad you're alive," said Lloyd, afraid to admit Alan Blanchart remained among the living.

  He parked several spaces away from Samantha's tan Civic in the parking lot. As far as he knew, the car's existence hadn't been compromised. A gamble he had no choice but to take.

  He observed his surroundings for several seconds to convince himself he wasn't followed. "Let's go..."

  He found the key on a hardened wad of gum in the wheel well and popped the trunk where he hid the backpack full of cash.

  Jamie climbed in the passenger seat. "I did everything like you said. He found out. He drugged me. I couldn't get away. He would have killed me." She squeezed Lloyd's forearm. "Where's Samantha?"

  Lloyd drove out of the empty parking lot and checked his rear view mirror. "She didn't make it."

  Jamie slumped in her seat. "Alan always gets what he wants in the end."

  "Not any more," said Lloyd.

  "I'll never be safe from him, will I?"

  Lloyd took the map from between the seats and traced the route outlined in red. "Try and get some rest. We still have a long way to go."

  Chapter 73

  Lloyd put his hands on the storefront window of a Salvation Army shop outside Alfreda, Georgia, and peered at the racks of donated goods on display.

  "Are you sure this is it?" Jamie asked him. She scratched at her neck and shoulder where her skin itched and burned from the red ant venom. She wanted to know exactly what happened to Alan, but she couldn't bring herself to ask.

  Lloyd pounded on the glass. "I see someone inside."

  "Maybe this isn't such a good idea. We should just take the money and disappear."

  "Wait—" Lloyd persisted. "Someone's coming."

  Jamie observed a slender woman with dark, curly hair and glasses advancing from the back of the store.

  "We close at seven," the woman spoke through the glass. She pointed to the posted business hours.

  Lloyd showed her a note with the name "Sandy" spelled out in block letters.

  "At seven," the woman reiterated.

  "Marsha Hollan gave this to me," Lloyd insisted. "She told me Sandy could help us."

  The woman backed away from the window. "This is a donation exchange, not a homeless shelter."

  "Marsha Hollan is dead," Lloyd informed her. "We need your help."

  The woman stared at Jamie and unlocked the door. "Who are you?"

  "Jamie Blanchart."

  "Come inside. Alone."

  Jamie looked at Lloyd and grabbed his hand. "He's with me," she told the woman.

  The woman held the door and checked the street. "Follow me," she said quietly, escorting her unsolicited clients beyond the store displays toward the back of the deceptively large commercial space. She pressed the # sign on a keypad on the wall and typed a numeric code.

  A door opened to reveal an office space with an older woman in a wheelchair behind a closed circuit monitor. Deep scar tissue covered one side of her badly burned face. "Who are they?" she asked her colleague.

  "They're here for Sandy," the slender woman with curly hair explained. "Marsha's dead."

  The woman in the wheelchair rolled back and forth in place, contemplating what action to take. "Close the door. And set the alarm before you leave."

  "Are you Sandy?" Lloyd asked the woman in the wheelchair.

  "I run an underground women's shelter, not a dating service. Marsha Hollan worked for me. If you're responsible for her death, I'll have the police here in under three minutes."

  "I didn't hurt her," Lloyd insisted. He set the backpack down. "Everything, just came unraveled..."

  "He saved my life," said Jamie.

  The woman nodded. "I helped Marsha put your safety plan together. She was like a sister to me."

  Jamie broke down in tears. "I'm sorry..."

  "Don't be. Marsha had her heart in the right place but her head was on ass-backwards. She was reckless. She took too many chances. But she helped a lot of women."

  The woman pulled a key from the thin gold chain around her neck and unlocked a cabinet drawer from her wheelchair. She gave Jamie a sealed envelope. "These are your new identification papers. Forged birth certificate and social security card. I need your picture to complete the passport. These aren't CIA quality, but few people can tell the difference."

  "What about Lloyd?" Jamie asked with her arm around his waist.

  "Your boyfriend's on his own," the woman answered. "This is not a witness protection program. If you want my advice, I suggest you two split up. Whatever trouble he's in will find its way back to you eventually."

  Jamie read Lloyd's expression. "I can't do this alone," she said, the thought of leaving Lloyd again too unbearable to imagine.

  Lloyd hugged her. "She's right, Jamie."

  "No. She's not. I'm alive because of you. We're in this together or not at all."

  Lloyd unzipped the bag and handed the woman a ten grand brick of hundred dollar bills. "You heard the lady. I'm all in."

  The woman cleared her throat. "Domestic abuse usually stays in the home. Most angry husbands will quit looking for their spouses after the first month or so. Most of these losers don't have the time or financial resources to conduct an ongoing search for someone who doesn't want to be found. It's easier for them to find a new victim than chase the one who got away."

  "My husband's a sheriff," said Jamie. "What if he comes after me?"

  "Right now you're out of his jurisdiction and out of his life. I suggest you remain that way. Cop or not, his reach can only extend so far. In my experience, domestic abuse allegations won't bode well for his career. Don't contact him again. Not even through an attorney. It's imperative you sever all ties with him, including any mutual acquaintances or close friends you share. Those people no longer exist to you. The life you left behind is gone. The farther away you get from your abuser, the better your outcome will be."

  "So what happens now?" asked Jamie.

  "Where you go from here is entirely up to you," the woman explained. "The less I know about your plans, the better. I recommend you change your appearance and use public transportation exclusively, at least for the first six months. It's harder for someone to find you without a paper trail to follow. Don't call anyone. Don't write anyone. Stay away from the Internet. Buy a disposable phone and keep your business to yourself. If a stranger tries to strike up a conversation with you, keep it vague. And if by chance someone recognizes you, deny your true identity, no matter how insistent they are, and walk away. Keep a low profile. Don't give people a reason to remember you."

  The woman wheeled herself to the safe and stuffed the cash inside. "I have a spare cot in the back and some medical supplies. We stock a small pantry if you're hungry. You can stay here for a few d
ays and recoup. You both look like you need it. I'll take some photos and draft a new set of identification papers for your boyfriend. After that, you two are on your own."

  Chapter 74

  One week later

  Lloyd rode near the back of a Greyhound bus with Jamie resting her head on his shoulder. Immersed in reading lights and random conversations from strangers eager to pass the time, he pondered the life he lost and the blood on his hands that left an indelible stain on the memory of his mother, his father, and the only sibling he'd ever known. He'd made his choice, and now his future with the woman he loved teetered on a pair of cheap disguises, fake birth certificates, and a single piece of carry-on luggage stuffed with two hundred and forty thousand dollars in cash, give or take a few grand. His life as he knew it was over, replaced by a man he hardly recognized any more. A stranger in his own shadow who witnessed his own good deeds—and the bad—without a thought to the repercussions of his actions. The last ten days took ten years off his life and forced him to question his decision to give so much of himself to a woman he hardly knew.

  Stirred by the rumble of broken pavement, Jamie opened her eyelids and smiled. Several rows in front of her, a baby cried for a bottle. In the row beside her, a retired cab driver in a New York Mets cap snored with his head back and his mouth gaped open like a Venus Fly Trap. "Where are we?" she asked Lloyd, disoriented from the cinematic flourish of bright lights against the desert landscape.

  "Almost in Phoenix," Lloyd whispered. "You were out before the movie ended." He took a crumpled copy of the USA Today from the seat pocket in front of him. The fake beard and mustache felt itchy over his fledging growth of authentic facial hair. He skimmed the headlines, reassuring himself his name remained absent from the printed media.

  Jamie adjusted herself between the armrests, stretching her legs beneath the seat in front of her. She leaned her head against the window, her voluminous locks reduced to a short bob cut. She wore enough foundation to cover three faces and a long-sleeve shirt to hide the sores on her arms. "You forget how big this country is. I feel so far from home."