Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “To get attention?” Parker stood by the fireplace, one foot on the raised hearth, firelight flickering across his handsome features, turning his naturally tanned skin to burnished gold.

  They were being unusually formal with each other, Dixie realized, as if a third person were in the room, a stranger. She wanted to break the tension, make Parker laugh—or even yell at her—but she continued talking, talking, talking, about everything except what needed to be discussed. Relationships were such a damned struggle.

  “Joanna does seem wrapped up in her own world. Everything she says to Sarina is some sort of complaint or criticism.” She remembered how upset Sarina had been when Dixie asked about the divorce. “Maybe Sarina thinks her bizarre prank might bring her parents back together. She wouldn’t be the first kid with such hopes.”

  “Inventing a stalker is no typical adolescent prank.”

  “Sarina’s not a typical adolescent.”

  “You’re making excuses for the girl, Dixie.”

  Yes, she was. Picturing Sarina calmly composing the stalker’s threatening messages, disguising her handwriting with the blocky red letters, and placing the cards where her mother would find them, Dixie wanted to jerk the girl up by her ears and shake till her brains rattled. But she could also picture the kid growing up with Joanna’s Hollywood craziness and self-involvement. By contrast, Sarina seemed practical, highly intelligent—a kid any mother should be thrilled to have around, to enjoy being with and getting to know. Sarina—she realized—was a kick.

  “She pulled a stupid stunt,” Dixie said. “Naturally, I’m surprised, and yeah, I was pissed when I found that card in her robe. But I’m also relieved.” The most frightening aspect of a bodyguard job was knowing you might not be adequate to the task, knowing that one slipup could give a killer an opening. “At least I don’t have to worry about her ending up on a mortician’s slab.”

  “More likely, on a shrink’s couch.”

  Parker flicked on the television, but left the sound low. A cop show was finishing up, preceding the news. He crossed the room to refill Dixie’s mug, then set the carafe on a table and perched on the arm of her chair.

  He ran a hand over Mud’s back.

  “If there’s no stalker, then you don’t have a job any longer.”

  “I don’t suppose that’ll break your heart.”

  “Not at all.” He continued stroking Mud’s back, not looking at Dixie. “You didn’t have much fun tonight, did you?”

  “I’m not much of a party animal.” She didn’t mind admitting her shortcomings, but admission generally led to some attempt at conquering them. She couldn’t see herself ever becoming a social butterfly. “Does that break your heart?”

  He scratched between Mud’s ears. “People prefer buying from someone they know. Circulating at social occasions is better than waiting for boat lovers to get a buying urge and drop by a showroom.” He stopped stroking the dog and turned a steady blue gaze at her. “I made good contacts tonight, Dixie. We’ll be invited to other parties. I’d like to think you want to be with me.”

  “I suppose you need a sociable female on your arm while you’re circulating.” Dixie studied the liquid in her mug. She didn’t like the catty sound in her voice, but dammit, the image of Parker laughing on the forward deck with the blonde wouldn’t go away.

  “No, Dixie, I don’t need a woman on my arm. But good hosts generally prefer to balance the male-female columns on their guest lists.”

  Meaning if she wasn’t there, another woman would be. God, she hated this conversation.

  “So I go along, wearing my rubber smile and making like a proper guest while you ignore me, spend the whole time charming the pants off your ‘contacts.’” Shit! She’d said it, despite her resolve not to play the jealous lover.

  Parker leaned away slightly to stare at her. When Dixie allowed her gaze to meet his, she saw an amused twinkle in his devilish eyes.

  “Is that a green glow radiating from your beautiful face?”

  Beautiful? Not very damn likely. Just the Parker Dann charm turned on high. Did he say the same words to every female he met? Did he have pet phrases, guaranteed get-laid flattery he portioned out like fish bait?

  On the television, a car careered around a corner, a police unit in close pursuit, bullets flying. Dixie would rather be dodging bullets, chasing one of the ten most wanted, than sitting here, taking part in this conversation. Why did male-female situations have to get so damn sticky?

  “Parker, I suppose I’m too down-home simple to enjoy the glitzy world you circulate in. And you don’t like my world much, do you?”

  He rose and stared at the fire. Mud lifted his muzzle off her foot to pant at her, and then at Parker.

  “So where does that leave us?” she added miserably, because she knew it had to be said.

  “Where do you want it to leave us?”

  How did she answer that? She wanted a perfect world, where she could do her job without being hassled, without worrying that Parker was worrying about her. She wanted to arrive home without that churning in her stomach, searching for signs that he hadn’t taken off for more exciting places. She wanted freedom to live her own life, dammit, but assurance that he’d always be a part of that life. How did she put that into words without sounding arrogant?

  As silence closed in on them, the room took on the feeling of a funeral parlor. Mud put his paws in Dixie’s lap and his muzzle near her face, as if trying to decide whether she needed a good tongue bath. When the news came on, Parker turned up the volume and Dixie welcomed the distraction. Then a familiar face flashed on the screen.

  “Lawyers for Lawrence Coombs filed suit against the city today for wrongful arrest and endangerment Coombs was assaulted last night following his acquittal of a rape charge. A spokesman for the District Attorney’s office responded to a citywide outcry supporting Coombs’ attackers.”

  The newscast switched to a location scene in the DA’s public relations office. “There is no place in our society for vigilante justice. This office will assist the police department in pursuing Lawrence Coombs’ attackers with the same diligence we allot any criminal investigation.”

  “They should’ve killed the bastard!” Dixie blurted, reliving the rage she’d felt during her last few moments with Coombs, before the cops burst into the room.

  Parker’s eyebrows dipped low, shading a penetrating gaze. “You sound like you mean that.”

  “Part of me does. The part that would’ve shot him had I been armed that day.”

  Parker nodded solemnly. “Me, too. Will the police really pursue his attackers as they claim?”

  “They’ll go through the motions. Coombs’ lawsuit will galvanize the mayor’s office to bring pressure on the DA.”

  “‘Which is the justice, which is the thief?’ Shakespeare asked. I’m wondering if justice has progressed in three centuries.”

  Parker’s own brush with the legal system had given him reason to doubt its merit.

  “The system may be fallible,” Dixie said. “Sometimes prosecutors and judges and juries make mistakes. But what would replace it?”

  The newscaster segued to another story, with a name Dixie recognized.

  “A judge ruled today that Patricia Carrera will be reunited with her eight-year-old son, Paulie. The boy’s grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Carrera, filed for custody after police dropped abuse charges against the mother due to insufficient evidence.”

  Brenda had worked for weeks trying to build a case against Patricia Carrera, who was accused by a school counselor of battering her son, after the boy came to school repeatedly with cuts and bruises. A team from Domestic Violence had investigated, and no one doubted the woman was guilty of abusing Paulie, but they could never put together enough evidence. And Paulie hadn’t held up well to questioning. When forced to drop the criminal case, Brenda had counted on the grandparents’ civil suit to protect the boy from future danger. Now die civil process had failed, too.

&nb
sp; “So, what are you going to do about the kid?” Parker asked softly.

  About Paulie? No, he meant Sarina. Sometimes Dixie was damn glad not to be a mother. It couldn’t be easy, or more people would get it right. Parker’s cool gaze probed for an answer.

  “I want to give Sarina a chance to explain. But from where I sit, there’s only one conclusion to draw. And since I wasn’t hired to untangle family problems, I’m dumping the whole mess back in Belle’s lap.”

  Dixie stared into the fire, unwilling to search Parker’s expression for approval. Her decision had nothing to do with their own problems, it was the only thing that made sense. Dixie worked for Belle Richards, not for the film star or the star’s daughter. How much to tell Joanna, and what to do next, would be Belle’s decision.

  Dixie only wished she could hand off her relationship problems as easily.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sissy sprang from her chair to snap off the six o’clock news. How could the court send that child back to his mother, knowing the unspeakable cruelties he’d suffered at the woman’s hand? How could a judge say there wasn’t enough evidence against Patricia Carrera? The boy’s testimony was all the evidence anyone needed.

  Hot chocolate splashed from Sissy’s cup, scalding her fingers. The pain ignited her anger, and she hurled the cup at the nearest wall. Hearing the satisfying crash, she lifted her chin and watched the chocolate mess slide to the floor.

  She looked at her hand and saw it curl into a fist.

  The power of the court was the highest power before God. Yet how many times must that power wither in the hands of ineffective judges and weak juries?

  Couldn’t they see that a small boy would never accuse his own mother of such horrible, torturous acts if they weren’t real? Didn’t they realize the child would return to more of the same unspeakable treatment?

  She kicked a stray porcelain shard against the baseboard and strode to the kitchen for a wet sponge.

  Children were God’s gift to nurture and protect, totally trusting, totally dependent. A parent who abused that trust, damaged a child, had to be stopped.

  Sissy wiped the sponge over the spattered wall, turned the sponge over, and wiped again. The wall would stain. She dropped the pieces of broken cup into a trash bag and carried it to the kitchen. Stuffed it deep into the can.

  Then she picked up the phone and punched in a number. Listening to the ring, she watched her fingers open and close, open and close into an ever-tightening fist.

  When man’s law became so impotent that women and children were no longer safe in their own homes, it was time for a higher, if cruder, form of justice.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Patricia Carrera backed slowly through the throng of protesters gathered outside her home. Stupid people. They could protest until their bleeding hearts shriveled, and it would make no difference. She had won! Her son was coming home, where he belonged.

  Steve’s parents has better not give her any trouble tonight. If they did, she would call the cops and demand they force the Carreras to release Paulie. Considering everything the cops and the District Attorney had done to hurt her, it was high time they helped her out.

  Patricia turned south, then west into the Carreras’ ritzy neighborhood. How many times a week had she made this trip when Steve was alive? Three times? Four? Seemed they were always at his parents’ house for some trumped-up occasion. After Steve’s death, the Carreras had wanted Paulie to stay over more and more often, poking at her with accusing eyes and vicious comments until finally they tried to take Paulie away altogether. But Patricia poked right back, busting their traitorous little scheme. Paulie was her son. He belonged with her.

  Straight ahead, a detour blocked the road to the Carreras’ house, ROADWORK, the sign said. Interesting. The streets along here all ended in culs-de-sac. How many of them handled enough traffic to create potholes?

  Now what was this, another roadblock? Without lights or reflectors, or even a sign directing traffic to an alternate route. Wait, the road was only partially blocked, as if someone had dragged the orange-and-white sawhorse into the street as a prank. Probably a kid. Kids had entirely too much freedom these days for causing mischief, too much time on their hands.

  Patricia couldn’t see any potholes. No open construction. Certainly no good reason to turn back. She was only a few blocks from the Carreras’ house, and this was obviously not a legitimate detour. If she shoved the sawhorse back a few feet, she could drive through. Leaving the engine running, she hopped out.

  A movement in the hedges startled her. Probably a cat. Disgusting, the way people let cats run wild, even in a nice neighborhood like this one.

  “Owh!” Something struck the back of her knees, knocking her forward. Her chest hit the sawhorse and she grabbed it for support.

  “What—?!” Something was being forced over her head. A plastic bag? “Stop that!” She couldn’t breathe inside a plastic bag! She fell to her knees as she tried to pull it off—

  Her hands were yanked behind her and fastened.

  “Get this off—owh!” A slap.

  “You keep that hole shut.” A whisper. “Or I’ll stuff a rag in it.”

  Now Patricia was being dragged, her breath sucking the plastic around her face. She would smother, she would die!

  She kicked backward at the person forcing her arms up high, hurting her—

  She was shoved onto a car seat—pushed to the floor-board. She shook her head to dislodge the plastic bag. Her breath had drawn it so tight against her mouth and nose that she knew she would pass out.

  “Be still,” the voice said.

  “I … can’t … breathe,” she managed.

  “Get that bag off her face,” someone said. “I told you to use the burlap.” A woman’s voice?

  The bag was loosened but not removed. Patricia gulped air, tilting her head so the plastic wouldn’t cling to her face. By rolling her shoulders forward and tucking her head down, she created an air pocket. After a few gasps, her breathing returned to normal.

  Who were these people? Where were they taking her?

  The car had picked up speed as if on a freeway; now it slowed again. Stopped. She heard the car doors open. Someone grabbed her wrists by the tape—that’s what it was, tape, they’d taped her wrists together—and pulled her backward from the car.

  “Who are you?”

  A smack across the mouth, catching her lip on the sharp edge of a tooth. She tasted blood. The plastic sucked against her face again—and she panicked—but when she tilted her head and blew a stream of air, the bag fell away. She could breathe, shallowly.

  A door scraped open. Pushed, she stumbled into a building that sounded large and empty. Garage? Warehouse? An acrid chemical odor hung in the air. Steps echoed hollowly. Another door opened, and she was shoved into a smaller room. Much smaller. Patricia felt herself being crowded forward, nose pressed into a comer like a bad child’s.

  A light clicked on overhead. She couldn’t see through the plastic bag, it was dark and opaque, but she could see light hitting the floor beneath her. Then the bag ripped away and she stared at two dirty gray walls cornering in front of her. A light hung from the ceiling behind her, a single bulb on a long cord. Shadows shifted on the wall as the bulb swung back and forth. Concrete under her feet, filthy, spattered with something that looked like russet paint.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, turning to see and receiving a slap on the back of the head.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?”

  Three mimicking voices, close to her ears; at least she thought there were three. At least two. She could feel their breath.

  Something spidery brushed her face—she shrank from the touch. Then someone leaned close.

  “We are God’s fist of justice,” the voice whispered. “Your transport to hell.”

  She felt a small, quick pain above her wrist, then the tape ripped off and her hands were f
ree. She hesitated before drawing them in front to massage the wrists, saw a spot of blood where something sharp had nicked her when they cut the tape. Patricia hated blood.

  “Oh, look. She’s got an ouchy.” Someone clubbed her hard on the back, knocking her forward. “You know about ouchies, don’t you, Trisha? You gave Paulie a plague of ouchies.”

  She had never given Paulie anything he didn’t deserve, no matter what these bleeding hearts thought. Their own children were probably spoiled, ungrateful whelps who would grow up to be drunken bums and criminals.

  A hand clutched her arm, jerked her around. When she saw the face, Patricia almost cried out. The mask was flesh-colored, a woman’s face molded of thin, translucent plastic, the expression horribly vacant. The hair was bright red Raggedy Ann yarn. A print housedress covered a bosom and hips that were obviously padded. A parody, Patricia wondered dizzily, of her own hennaed hair, her own ample figure?

  Another “woman” stood nearby. Frizzy yellow hair framed a cartoon face, long Betty Boop eyelashes painted on plastic eyelids. Both “women” wore thin rubber gloves and black rubber boots.

  “Look at that dirt on your dress, Trisha,” Betty Boop mocked. “Only stupid, clumsy little girls get their dresses dirty. Stupid, clumsy girls.”

  She—it was a she, wasn’t it?—grasped Patricia’s hand.

  “Trisha needs a reminder not to dirty her nice dress,” whispered Raggedy Ann, her voice low and sultry.

  She slapped Patricia’s palm with a metal egg turner, exactly like the one in Patricia’s own kitchen. The holes in the metal stung like ant bites. It hurt!

  Patricia clinched her hand and spit at the redhead. Spittle oozed down the plastic cheek. Through the translucent face, she could see the “woman’s” features twist into a cruel smile.

  “That was naughty.” The sultry whisper slid over Patricia like syrup. “We all know what happens to naughty little girls, don’t we?”

  Who were these people? And just where did they get off treating her like this?