You noticed a drop of perspiration fall from the tip of your nose to the carpeted stair underfoot, and wondered if it could pop up as evidence.
You were bent over using your runner’s glove to swab up the droplet when Scarface caught your left calf in his jaws.
At first you thought it was a severe cramp. Maybe you’d been favoring your left leg to protect your fragile right and the imbalance caught up with you.
Even when you heard the growl and felt teeth sinking in you couldn’t quite believe it. After all, you’d received Ava’s text: DG KNNLD, STMP LVG 1 HR.
What neither of you’d considered was that Stump might extract Scarface prior to leaving.
Call it an oversight.
An oversight that was quickly turning your left leg into shredded meat.
You collapsed forward on the staircase. Scarface dug in deeper, swung his head.
Agony.
You’d stopped thinking. You tried to kick out at him with your other foot but couldn’t land more than a glancing blow. You wished you’d started running in steel-shanked boots instead of sneaks.
You tried to say, “Good doggy let go doggy” but when you opened your mouth to assuage, all that came out was, “AAAAAAA! SHITSHITSHIT! JESUS!” It riled him; he clamped deeper.
You found the beefy treats you always carried in your pocket for just such an occasion. You tried to extend your arms backwards with the snacks so Scarface could catch the scent.
No interest. So you did your best to wing the snacks at him.
A yelp! Sweet mother of mercy—his jaws cut loose for a second. You rotated, braced for further assaults.
Scarface was pawing at the right side of his face, whining. One of the stale old snacks must have clipped him dead in the eye.
For one tiny moment you felt bad for him. Then his head dropped below his shoulders. He was about to pounce again. You kicked out in desperation, eyes closed….
Both of your feet made contact.
Scarface thumped to the bottom of the staircase, laid out.
Shit! You felt terrible—instantly cursed. Steal a man’s coke and his girl and he might move on with his life. But kill his dog? He’d probably hunt you to the ends of the Earth.
Without thinking you were limping back down the stairs, towards the dog, to see if you’d actually killed it. Then you heard a low growl.
Scarface popped up in full bristle, teeth bared, bloody.
Your blood. It took a second to recognize that.
You leapt up the stairs, four at a time. You had to lean more weight on your right. The tightness there turned to razor-wire. Then you were in the upper hallway and bounding, trying to remember what she’d said.
Third door on the left. Guest bathroom.
You collapsed into the third room, no longer caring if it was the bathroom, just wanting to kick the door closed. Shut out the beast.
You heard the door click shut and pressed your right foot against the wood, bracing it.
You could tell he was out there, hear him gnawing at the door with the side of his mouth. You reached up, locked the door. Gnashing turned to barking, guttural eruptions.
You worried about the neighbors being alerted but remembered what Ava told you—the whole joint was soundproofed since they used to get complaints about the studio bumping beats at all hours.
You flipped the light switch and caught yourself in the mirror. Bloody. Shaking. In track gear. The image ran ugly.
But at least you’d landed in the bathroom.
You were glad the mirror had to come down—seeing yourself in that moment brought in a rush of feelings and questions that were better not contemplated. You grabbed each side of the frame, lifted up, and pulled it back off its mounting screws.
The hole in the drywall was there, as she’d described. You reached in and found the plastic loop, pulled it off the nail in the stud. The loop was attached to a vinyl cord. Your shoulders strained to reel in the compressed duffel bag at its far end.
Seeing the loot gave you new confidence. You’d found your grail—your princess was waiting for your return. You re-mounted the mirror, used a towel to clean your blood off the floor and then wrapped it around your leg to staunch further bleeding.
Scarface’s paws thumped against the door, nails scraping, not calming down. You scanned the bathroom for a weapon and found nothing that would allow you to confront the hound with confidence.
That left one point of exit—a small sliding window above the shower.
You slid the window open, popped the screen. You tied off the duffel bag to your CamelBak and used the vinyl cord to lower them to the ground.
The drop from the second floor was unfriendly no matter how you went about it. You managed to hang and exit feet first. Both legs felt equally savaged so you couldn’t pick one to bear the brunt of the fall. Instead you tried to let your legs collapse and shift your weight to the back so you could somersault out of it.
This did not work.
Your left leg hit first. Before you could shift your weight your knee was driven into your jaw. A world-class uppercut delivered by yourself. For a moment everything was fireworks, copper, dust. Then your brain cleared out.
You’d made it.
Your contraband was to your left, Scarface was a distant threat, and you were only a quarter mile from an angel-in-waiting.
What you didn’t expect was… well… any of it.
Ava was at the meeting spot, a dusty trailhead near the Wildwood hiking areas. That part matched up with what you’d pictured.
She’d stepped out of the car, closed the door. She’d left the headlights off. You couldn’t see her well. You’d taken longer than expected to reach her, moving along with a limping trot. You began to apologize.
“I know I’m running a little behind but you won’t believe…”
And then she hit you with the Tazer.
You were already on the gravel before you recognized the crackling sound, felt the darts piercing your belly.
For a moment you thought that you’d been shot. That Stump Lo had found the pair of you and you were dead for sure.
But it was Ava holding the Tazer, and she wasn’t letting up on the volts.
Your right leg was folded underneath your body. With the next blast of juice you felt your calf pull too tight. Your fragile iliotibial band finally gave with an audible snap. You would have screamed if your jaw wasn’t clenched shut.
Ava let up on the trigger. She said, “Bag!”
You gestured towards your pack and the duffel bag, thrown three feet to your side.
“Ava, what…”
She turned the juice back on. Grabbed the duffel, clearly not interested in conversation. She stepped closer.
“I’m going to release the trigger, but if you start to talk I’ll Taze you until your hair starts on fire. Got me?”
You made your best effort at a nod.
She crouched closer. “You’re not coming with me, but you should still run. You probably didn’t even think of this, but Stump’s place has a shit-ton of cameras. They make him feel gangster. He’s no killer, but the people who supply him will not be pleased.”
She’d been rehearsing this, leaving no room for emotion. Maybe she really loved you. Maybe this was some kind of test…
She continued. “You’ve probably killed me. This is what people will think. They will find a letter at Union Jack’s, talking about how you’d been planning to rob Stump. You threatened to kill me if I didn’t go along with it. You’d even joked about burying me out here in Forest Park and keeping the drugs for yourself. The girls I worked with last night think I’m scared of you. I really sold it. There are plenty of people who’ve seen you staring at me for hours. It will read as stalker behavior after the letter gets out.”
“But, Ava…”
ZZZZRNT! You seized up. She was not trigger-shy on the Tazer.
“Don’t try to find me.”
Another long jolt with the Tazer. Then she was kneel
ing by your side, properly pegging you as too jellied for combat. Even in the dark, you could sense she was smiling. She was back at your ear.
“I did love the ring, by the way, but I had to sell it today. Easier to send off the single mother vibe without it.”
Then she was over you. Her breath smelled like black licorice. She leaned in to kiss you on the lips.
And you, you sorry sonofabitch, you still wanted it. When her lips met yours you closed your eyes, hoped time would slow.
But it ended, and she was up and the Tazer was left in the dirt.
“You’re smart enough to know I’m right. Get the fuck out of Portland.”
“Ava…”
“Good luck.”
Her car door slammed. Headlights slapped you blind and she was gone.
You hobble-dragged yourself three miles before realizing you couldn’t go further. Dawn would come and you were far too savaged for your runner’s ruse to help you.
You made it to a house which looked unoccupied. You memorized the street address, crawled to the backyard to keep from being spotted street-side.
You drained the water from your CamelBak, still felt Death Valley thirsty.
There was one stroke of luck in all of this. Ava left you with your cell phone.
Call it an oversight.
Your first phone call was to Uncle Joshua. He slurred a groggy “Hello?” but was alert after hearing your voice. You gave him the address. Said to come to the backyard of the house. Don’t ask why.
He didn’t. You’d run with him as best you could this last Thursday, knowing it might be your last time together. He’d started to ask you questions about late nights, your hitchy right leg. You’d cut him off.
“Things are just kind of crazy right now. I met this girl…”
Uncle Joshua had laughed and let out a slow, knowing “Oh.” You’d worked hard to ignore your leg, picked up the pace. He got the message.
You hoped he’d pick up his pace now. You’d lost a lot of blood. How long did you have before Stump figured out he’d been jacked? How long before Ava’s friends would have the cops scanning Forest Park for a body they’d never find?
A light turned on over the patio at the rear of the house. Could be on a timer—you weren’t taking any chances. You crawled across the grass, spotting a large and thankfully empty dog house.
You crept in, found it surprisingly plush. Call it delirium, but you swore the west wall had an on-switch for a tiny A/C unit. Even the dogs up in the hills were living easy.
You leaned against the rear wall, set your CamelBak on your belly. Unzipped the pack. Pulled out your accidental insurance policy.
You’d broken in to Ava’s place on Thursday night, knowing she was working at Devil’s Point, to bring her underwear back. Ever since you’d stolen them you’d felt weird about it. They turned you on, but you wanted to move past connecting to people through their things. You had a chance to be with the flesh-and-blood girl. Starting out psychotic felt wrong.
But once you were in her place you couldn’t help exploring. You rifled the bag she’d packed, wanting to see what kind of swimsuits she’d be wearing to the beach.
You’d been living with compulsion so long you didn’t even question it when you pocketed the thing. She was going to need it with her. This way you’d be certain she wouldn’t forget it.
But you could have left it in the bag. It was already packed. She wasn’t going to forget it. Maybe, deep down in the recesses of your memory, you were thinking of Mary Ashford and Sarah Miller, and that twinge of pain kept her passport in your pocket.
Your second call was to Information. They automatically connected you through to a Customs agent at PDX.
You noticed silver sparkles in your vision that couldn’t mean anything good. Zoning on the passport photo helped you focus.
God, she was easy on the eyes. Too bad she was murder on the rest of you.
You told the man on the phone what she looked like, what kind of uniquely marketable baby she was carrying. You told him that the woman’s birth name was Jean Christenson, but that she preferred to be called Ava, which was short for Avarice.
He noted that the name seemed appropriate.
“More than you’ll ever know, pal.” You closed the cell, thinking of her last words to you.
Good luck.
Your chest began to shake.
You were still laughing when your Uncle Joshua arrived and spotted your running shoes sticking out of the tiny house in the stranger’s yard.
He crouched down, looked you over.
“Jesus! Are you okay?”
In between gusts of mad laughter you managed to say, “Nope. I’m in a bad place. I’m going to have to run.”
“Okay, we’ll get to that. First let’s get you out of that fucking dog house.”
He managed to get you upright, with your arm around his shoulder and as much weight as you could bear on your dog-mauled leg.
Once he started the car he looked over at you, seemingly relieved that you’d stopped laughing. The pain of moving had killed the chuckles.
Your Uncle had a hundred questions on his face. He asked one.
“The girl?”
You nodded in the affirmative then, over and over, guessing he would understand: Yes I was a sucker I thought it was love and yes I’m still remembering her kiss and the worst part is that if you ask me if I am still in love with Ava gorgeous terrible amazing vicious Ava I might say yes despite it all Yes.
You began to shake, nodding, mumbling, “OhGodohGodohGod….”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy. Trust me, you’ve just hit the wall. You know that’s as bad as it gets. I’m with you. You’re gonna get fixed up. You’ve got to tell me enough to keep you safe, but that’s it. We’ll go where we need to. And soon as you can foot it, soon as you get past this wall, the morning runs are back. And this time there’s no dropping it. No goddamn way. Whatever’s got itself inside of you, kiddo, we’re going to hit the streets and clear it the fuck out.”
He twisted his grip on the steering wheel, gunned his car down slender curving roads on the way to the hospital. Dawn was approaching. It was likely to be another beautiful grey-green morning in Portland. Could your Uncle really be willing to leave his home behind just to protect your mangled carcass?
You wondered at your luck, knowing this man.
He approached a red light, started to hesitate, took one look at you, and then pushed right through.
And you, you love-sick bastard, you finally let shock take hold.
Dale believed in both Christ and karma. But no matter how many prayers fell desperate from his lips, or how often he reminded himself of the reparations he’d made, he couldn’t shake the guilt. It seethed through him, the heat-wired electricity of niacin flush. It wracked his stomach, left him with cramps that ran the length of his twisting guts.
Whoever killed Mark, Pete, and Steve, they’re coming for me next.
The pistol was new to Dale, heavy and alien to his touch. Never had much affinity for guns. Tried to run his life quiet, calm. Tried to be a peaceful person.
That’s why New Orleans never should have happened.
But it did, and now his friend’s houses were sectioned off by yellow police tape, and he was cowering around his cold apartment clutching an oily gun.
Cops had asked Dale questions he couldn’t answer.
“Do you know if your friends were involved in any sort of cult?”
“Maybe something to do with rituals?”
“Can you think of anyone who would want them dead?”
This last question was accompanied by long, sunlamp stares.
They think I did this. Want me to crack. But I didn’t do anything.
And Dale couldn’t help feeling that his friends got their just desserts. Not an easy thought, but it felt true.
He’d hid the news clipping in a cupboard three days ago, after getting the call about Pete’s death. But Dale knew the picture was there. Megh
an Farrington, her face newsprint gray, smiling from the obituary page. Twenty-eight years old.
She was twenty-seven when we met her in New Orleans. Told us charming stories about her father, Earl, a “Nawlins gris-gris man” who supposedly sold fake mojo to tourists and real hoodoo to locals.
She wasn’t looking when Mark slipped the roofie in her bourbon. He promised we wouldn’t hurt her; said she wouldn’t even remember. But how could she not remember them? Pushing her down. Taking their turns. Steve, rotten on tequila, calling her by his ex’s name, punching her kidneys. How could she not remember, with those bruises?
But I didn’t do anything. I just held the camera and filmed them and pretended to laugh while they played with their rag-doll. I’m not like them. Never touched her.
And afterwards, when that evening’s ugliness had cancer-crawled its way through the men’s friendship and set them adrift from each other, Dale had tried to set things right.
He’d seen Meghan’s driver’s license that night and knew her name. Took him less than a day to find her on the internet.
Dale forged a friendship with her, posing online as a woman named Susan Jessup. He learned how fragile Meghan had become. That night at Mardi Gras now kept the girl isolated, house-bound.
Trust had become impossible, but somehow she’d opened up to “Susan Jessup,” who claimed to have been a victim of similar abuse.
Dale felt crooked as hell, but couldn’t let himself abandon Meghan after he’d helped to bring her to this state. He could fix things…
And when she revealed that she was pregnant, Dale mailed her cash. He skimped on his own groceries, settling for ramen every night so he could mail Meghan money for the child his old friends had raped into her.
Even these things didn’t assuage Dale’s guilt.
He burned the New Orleans tape; took it to the landfill and blazed it to lighter-fluid vapors. Green-black smoke in the moonlight. Dale prayed to Christ that what had been done might be undone, might be smashed to ashes like the burning tape.
We Live Inside You Page 4