by Cathy Lamb
“Yep. They called off the case and the chase. Ain’t it funny? Devon didn’t need to run and hide. Didn’t need to become someone new. Isn’t that funny?”
No, it wasn’t funny, you lunatic. And if you touch me I will beat you and kick you and scream....
“Doesn’t matter, though. I now have five hundred thousand dollars, and look where you two are living. A dump. I’m taking off. But first I’ll take from him what was taken from me. He took my brother away from me, and I’m taking you. First we’re gonna have some fun in that bedroom, and when Devon comes home, he’ll find you tucked away in bed dead.” He laughed, this was so funny. “He’ll try to wake you up, and you know what? He won’t be able to wake you up. You will be deader than you were in that coma. Like my brother was dead and I couldn’t wake him up.”
I saw a shadow between the curtains of the window. Was it Zack? Was he home early?
“Get naked, Natalie.” Ronnie took three menacing steps toward me, his face screwed up in an ugly mask, and I turned to run toward the gun in the bedroom. The towel fell and I stumbled because I still have balance issues. Ronnie giggle and grabbed me, spinning me around and pulling my naked body up tight to his. I leaned my head back and screamed, and his fist came pounding into my cheek. I crumbled to the ground.
“Dumb bitch. You didn’t have to make this hard. You know that. Stand up.”
I couldn’t stand up. I was dizzy. Blood dripped down my face. He had a ring on and it had sliced my cheek.
He took a deep breath, and his tone changed. “Come on, now. Don’t be a cat. When we did that to cats they died just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Meow for me.” His voice sounded reasonable. That was the scariest part of all. “Meow, meow. Look at those boobs. So big, but the rest of you is small. Except that butt. How do you and Devon have sex? Tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me.”
He reached down and grabbed my hair and yanked me up. I pushed at his chest, reeling, but it did nothing. “I like a feisty woman. Fight me all you want.” He put his greasy, sweaty hand on my ass and pulled me up tight against him, then his other hand came around my throat, and he squeezed. I couldn’t breathe. My throat was being crushed, the edges of my vision darkening, his red face blurring and drifting away. I struggled, I fought as hard as I could, but soon I couldn’t move and everything went black.
Suddenly the pressure was gone from my neck and I felt myself floating. I looked down and I saw myself, Ronnie’s hands around my neck, my face red and purple, my eyes closing. I felt myself being pulled into a soft tunnel, safe and warm. I felt someone with me, holding my hands. I felt love. Peace.
I flew through the ceiling of my apartment, watching Ronnie and myself grow smaller and smaller, and into the sky. I saw light blue and dark blue and puffy white clouds. I heard Beethoven’s Fifth, my favorite, then I heard my father singing to me: Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” “Old McDonald Had a Farm.” The Beatles’ “Let It Be.”
It all came back to me at once as the musical tunnel pulled me through, my hands held: I’ve been here before. After the car accident. I remember drifting away from my truck and seeing my own head on the air bag, the splattered blood.
I was dying. I looked for my grandma and there she was, sitting at a table with three other people, including the love of her life, Howard MacIntosh, who grinned at me and waved.
She was playing poker. She had stacks of chips in front of her. She saw me and her face lit up with love and joy, then it was filled with fear and anguish. She ran to me, as did Howard, who now looked equally concerned.
“For God’s sakes,” she said. “This is the second time. What the hell is going on down there? You and Zack aren’t supposed to be up here for fifty-five years. You come together.”
“Grandma, help me, please, I love you—”
“I love you, too, darlin’.” I could smell her rose perfume. “Hang on.” She ran back a few feet, palms up, and I braced myself for the hit. I fell back down the soft, musical tunnel, through the light and dark blue and the puffy white clouds and back into my apartment, my neck held in a vice by a giggling Ronnie. . . .
It was at that exact moment that my front door exploded.
The noise was deafening. Wood flew into the room, and I was dropped, gasping, to the floor. I heard another blast, then a third. A fourth. Gunshots.
“What the hell—” Ronnie screamed.
I didn’t know what was going on, but I tried to crawl toward my bedroom and my gun, the room tilting, rocking back and forth, as I struggled to inhale, to breathe.
It wasn’t necessary to get my gun, though. As soon as I moved, I heard two more blasts. I turned and saw Ronnie crumble to the floor, onto his back. There was a bullet hole in his head and one in his chest, where he was bleeding profusely. He did not move.
I turned my shocked eyes to the front door, my hand against the wall to balance myself.
And there was my mother. Both hands extended, clasping her gun. She was wearing a red dress and matching red heels. It was Ruby Day! Her hair was perfectly coiffed, the nails that held the gun painted red.
“Hello, honey,” she called out, as if we were meeting at a tea party. “Hope you’re okay.”
“Mother,” I croaked, holding my bleeding face with one hand, the pain banging through my head.
“I did tell you that I was going to surprise you, Natalie. Surprise!”
“Nice to see you, Mother,” I whispered, stunned.
“I wanted to tell you, darling, that you were right about another divorce. I cannot go through it a fifth time. I decided that Dell is the right man for me.”
She tottered in on her four-inch red heels and stood over Ronnie lying on the ground. Her gun was still pointed at him, her red designer purse on her arm. I heard sirens in the distance.
“I am an excellent shot,” she said. “That is the one thing my miserable father taught me.”
“You do have talent.” I could hardly breathe through my bruised, crushed neck. Blinding pain, residual white hot fear, and relief all mixed together.
“I don’t miss. A woman always has to have a gun, you never know. You told me to keep the safety on. Now do you understand why I don’t?”
“Yes, I believe I do.” My face hurt. There was blood all over. I slumped over, leaning against the wall.
“Now, who was that, dear? And why did he hit you in the face, and why are you naked?”
“He’s been stalking us. Stalking Zack.” My voice was a rough croak. “He was the one who rammed my truck and put me in a coma. He threatened to kill me today.”
She kicked him in the head. “Asshole. No one hurts my girl. That’s why I killed him.” She grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen, crouched beside me, and held it to my face to staunch the blood. “Why was he after the two of you?”
“Because Mother . . .” I tried to breathe. “Zack is not who he says he is. He had a different name when he was younger. He killed this man’s brother when the brother came at him with a knife. Zack was defending a woman. Zack went on the run and disappeared because he thought he would go to jail forever. This man’s father was the chief of police and his uncle was the DA. Zack was nineteen. His parents were dead. He was scared. But I talked to Jed, and everything’s okay.”
“Oh. I understand. That makes sense.” And amazingly, she did. My mother’s education was severely limited, due to her abusive parents, but she is sharper than an ax about some things. She checked her nails. “Darn it. Just had these done and now two are chipped. You’ll have to go with me to the manicurist. I’m sure you need your nails done, you always do. You should take better care of them.”
“Looking forward to it,” I wheezed.
“Are you hurt badly?” She still held the towel to my bleeding head. “Obviously, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig, but how bad is the pain?”
She pressed a kiss to my cheek, the one that wasn’t covered in blood. I was touched. I was further touched when she sniffled and her blue eyes filled wit
h tears. Next, she kissed my forehead. Honestly, I was shocked to have been attacked, but having this much affection from my mother was quite shocking, too.
“Not too bad, Mom.” It hurt like the devil.
“Glad to hear it, dear.” We heard the police outside. She smiled, raised her eyebrows. “I’ll go and greet the police, say hello, welcome them in, play the hostess role. You go and get dressed. A lady knows to always look her best, and she knows she should get naked only in front of her husband.” She paused, then winked, the tears clearing. “All five of them.”
I could not move, as my brain was throbbing and would undoubtedly fall out of my skull if I did, so the police were going to see my naked self. Right by the dead body. It was the least of my concerns, this nakedness.
I had one thought as I watched my mother gracefully step over Ronnie’s dead body in her four-inch red heels so she could go “greet” the police and “welcome” them in: I have never been so glad to see her.
* * *
“I saw that the drapes were drawn and I thought to myself, ‘My. Isn’t that strange?’” My mother’s voice reached me. She had lowered it for best story-telling effect for the police officers, serious men and women in suits and uniforms, and Detective Zadora. “Natalie doesn’t shut her drapes unless it’s nighttime. I taught her to always let the sunshine in. I know a lot about home décor.”
I was on a stretcher. I was covered with a blanket. My face had stopped bleeding, but it was still throbbing. There were police, firefighters, and paramedics crammed into my apartment.
“So I peeked through the curtains.” My mother mimicked peeking through the curtains, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows. This was her chance to show Important People that she was a super sleuth. “And I saw this man advancing on my daughter. Natalie turned to run and he caught her and hit her in the face with his fist. Well, I’m telling you. I am her mother, and no one hits my girl. When I saw that, I got my gun out of my purse.” She mimed holding her gun, both hands, feet spread apart in her red designer dress. “I shot through the locks, all three of them, then the door itself, then I kicked the door open like you see women police officers do in the movies.” She mimed the kick in her red high heels. “Hiya!” she yelled, quite loudly.
“When the door opened, that rancid piece of white trash whipped around and started to move toward me. He dropped my beat-up daughter right to the floor, and that’s when I decided to defend my and my daughter’s virtue, dignity, and honor.” Her voice rose with indignation and pride. “I shot twice. Clean shots. Head and chest. Down he went.”
I laughed. It hurt my face. I tried not to laugh again. What an odd person I am. I had been attacked, but there I was, laughing at my mother.
“I always carry my gun with me,” she said proudly. She patted her blond hair. “Safety off. You never know when you’ll need it, and you must be prepared to shoot. A woman can be both beautiful and an excellent shot, don’t you think?”
I glanced at the officers. They blinked at my mother, not sure what to make of her. I wasn’t sure, either.
“I’m going to open a clothing boutique!” she announced.
* * *
As I left on the stretcher I cast a glance over to my grandma’s antique perfume bottles and smiled. “Thank you, Grandma Dixie,” I whispered. I peered at the kitchen floor. Oh, my gosh. The perfume bottle that Ronnie had thrown against the wall had not broken.
* * *
Zack was called by Detective Zadora, and he raced to the hospital to meet me. I had my mother call Jed to tell him what happened. Jed immediately called Zack and told him not to talk to the police under any circumstances. He needed an attorney, and Jed was already in the process of getting him one.
Zack hugged me tight, but not too tight, as I was all banged up again. “Baby, I am so sorry.”
“Zack, please. Just kiss me. Gently.” He did.
Eventually, after fully enjoying her moment in the limelight with the police officers, my mother arrived at the hospital and whispered to me, “Do you think I could write a book about this? I bet Oprah would love to feature me in her magazine. ‘Woman Saves Her Daughter’s Life but Still Maintains Most of Her Manicure.’ What do you think?”
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
She pouted. “You’re ruining my fun.” Then she actually became all teary eyed again and, for the second time, kissed my cheek, then my forehead. This was a miracle. Four kisses. In one day! “I love you, Natalie.”
Oh. My. Goodness. “I love you, too, Mom.”
Once he knew I was okay, relatively speaking, Zack left my hospital room and told the police, and Detective Zadora, and the DA, everything. His attorney had arrived, a true ball-banger named Karen Bennett, and advised him not to talk until she had a chance to talk to him. He declined to do as she advised.
In the end, Zack spent hours being grilled by the authorities. The authorities in Portland talked to the authorities in Arkansas. The cold case was reopened. The authorities in Arkansas found Stephanie and talked to her again. There had been another witness, too—the man who had called the police outside the restaurant that night. He was a chef there, and he told the police that he saw Willie slamming Stephanie’s head into the hood of a truck and watched Zack protect her as he called the police. He had even seen the knife that Willie wielded.
Stephanie had moved to Seattle after Ronnie beat her up for “causing Willie’s death.” She thought he was going to kill her the next time around, which he probably would have. Ironically, she had changed her name, too, to hide from Ronnie.
Stephanie owns a coffee shop and sells her paintings on the side. She is married and has five children. She told the police, unequivocally, again, that Zack had saved her life. Her exact words, which Detective Zadora later told us, were, “Willie was bashing my head into the hood of his truck. Do you see my scars? He broke my nose, my jaw, and an eye socket. I still sometimes have pain in my neck. He was furious that I had broken up with him. He told me that if he couldn’t have me, no man would, and he was going to kill me. Zack saved my life. And yes, I did see Willie pull the knife on Zack. He tried to stab it right into Zack’s heart. Willie tried to kill Zack.”
She backed up every inch of Zack’s story, even down to telling the police that she had insisted that Zack leave. “I knew that Willie’s and Ronnie’s dad and uncle would have Zack in jail even though he had saved my life. They would all lie. They would all manipulate the system. They would pull in favors from other people they knew, they would bribe people, and get Zack locked up forever, probably on death row. They were corrupt people, just like Willie and Ronnie.”
What also helped Zack’s case in terms of running and eluding the law? He was nineteen at the time. Barely more than a kid. His parents were dead. He was scared. He didn’t want to go to jail. He didn’t trust the system, who did? He lived in Arkansas and had not seen the system work. He ran because it made sense to him at the time and, fortunately, it made sense to the law enforcement officials who heard it. He had led an exemplary, law-abiding, tax-paying life and now was a successful homebuilder. He did have a stolen social security number, and a license based on a fake name, but they would work that part out.
The media got hold of the story. Every single thing came out. People were fascinated. A man had disappeared after a crime for twenty years! He had murdered a man in self-defense! He had saved a woman’s life! And here is the woman! Stephanie spoke at every turn, defending Zack, reiterating she would have been dead if not for him. She even went on three talk shows. Zack declined every invitation for an interview, even when the true story came out about how his parents died.
All charges were dropped. Zack was a free man. Forever.
“Should I call you Devon or Zack?” I asked, curled up naked beside him in bed.
“Baby, you can call me anything you want.” He smiled at me, and I smiled back.
“I think I will call you, I love you.” I laughed.
“That’s the perfect name
. Love you, too, Natalie. Always have, always will.”
* * *
Detective Zadora had known almost everything. They started looking into Zack’s history and then found that his history . . . stopped. Right when he was nineteen. His social security number was false, and they started digging. She and her team were simply researching further, amidst the rest of their enormous criminal caseload, before they came to Zack with the information and their decision. She is a smart woman.
She did have a question for me, though. “Your father . . . is he married?”
* * *
Stephanie insisted on getting Zack’s phone number to thank him. They had a lovely chat. She asked him what he liked to do, and he said he liked to watch the sun set over the coast range with me. She painted him a glowing sunset, the ragged blue and purple mountains in the distance, two deer outlined in the trees, two people, Zack and I, standing with our arms around each other. We loved it.
* * *
I told my dad I’d seen his mother in heaven.
“She was working on a red 1967 Chevy, Dad.”
He choked up. “That was her dream car. Now she’s finally got it. She was a dart-throwing, car-fixing, rifle-shooting, deer-hunting, poker-playing, apple-pie-baking son of a gun, and I loved her.”
* * *
When I was better I made my grandma Dixie’s apple pie for Zack wearing a negligee with apples on it. I had to stop in the middle when Zack could not control himself.
This time I did everything right. I didn’t burn it. I added the cinnamon and nutmeg and the right amount of brown sugar. The crisscross crust was crunchy and tasty.
I was so proud of that pie. My grandma would have been, too.
“It’s delicious,” Zack said.
“You’re still my apple pie, Zack.”
We laughed, hard. It wasn’t that funny, but there was victory in that pie baking.
* * *
Yes, the Moonshine and Milky Way Maverick Girls were doing it.