You didn’t want to seem soft, but you had to question the wisdom of bringing the drugs. Carrying all that cash was already highly suspect, but the coke turned your trip into trafficking. Why risk it?
“The US dollar is on the decline, but coke is universal tender. We can turn it into more money, connections, favors, more coke even. I think it will help us, big time, and I’ve never seen a pregnant chick getting searched at the airport. Have you?”
You hadn’t.
“Besides, with this rock on my finger we’ll look like we’re engaged. It’s perfect.”
You considered proposing. Make it real right then and there. But it might spook her, and you knew that even better times were to come. Wouldn’t it be better to propose at sunset, in the sand, with a light buzz kicking from some tropical fruit bullshit cocktail? Yes it would.
Besides, you hadn’t even kissed yet. For all you knew, as much as you tried to exterminate the thought from your mind, she might still be fucking Stump Lo. But if she was it was just to perfect her cover and keep things smooth until you could begin your life together. Right? You squashed the question, the thought, the images. You focused on her face.
She pinned you down with her eyes and asked you if you thought you were ready for Friday night.
The version of yourself that you were selling could only answer Yes.
Getting in was simple. You saw those window-mounted A/C units as a big sign reading, “Not only do I not give a shit about the environment, I really don’t mind if you come inside my house.” You’d brought your LifeHammer as a back-up, but all you’d needed to access the Stump Lo residence was a small screwdriver and the ability to disconnect a plug. Easy peasy.
You were halfway up the stairs to the upper bathroom where the stash was supposed to be hidden, and feeling like the air had been replaced with a Dexedrine mist. Your mouth was dry but your face was a constant cooling sheet of sweat.
You noticed a drop of sweat fall from the tip of your nose to the carpeted stair underfoot, and you were wondering if anyone would be able to detect that or use it as evidence.
You were bent over using your runner’s glove to try and swab up the sweat droplet, thinking of yourself as a thorough criminal mastermind, when Scarface caught your left calf in his jaws.
For a split second you thought it was a severe and sudden cramp. Maybe you’d been favoring your left leg to go easy on your fragile right and the imbalance caught up with you.
Even when you heard the growl and felt his teeth sinking in you couldn’t quite believe it. After all, you’d received Ava’s text: DG KNNLD, STMP LVG ½ HR.
What neither of you’d thought of was that Stump might decide to remove Scarface from the kennel prior to leaving.
Call it an oversight.
An oversight that was quickly turning your left leg into a chunk of shredded meat.
You collapsed forward on the staircase as Scarface dug in deeper and swung his head from side to side.
Agony, and 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 lightweight sneaks.
You tried to speak, to say, “Hi doggy good doggy it’s me your friend please let go” but when you opened your mouth to assuage the hound all that came out was, “AAAAAAA! SHITSHITSHIT! OH JESUS!” It seemed to rile him up; he clamped down harder.
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, looking back, bracing for the next assault.
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 you saw his head start to drop below his shoulders and you realized he was about to pounce again. You kicked out in desperation, eyes closed, and felt both of your feet make contact.
Scarface thumped to the bottom of the staircase and lay still on the floor.
Shit! You felt terrible—instantly cursed. Steal a man’s coke and his girl and he might just move on with his life. But kill his dog and he’d probably hunt you to the ends of the Earth.
Without thinking you were walking back down the stairs, towards the dog, to see if you’d actually killed it. Then you heard a growl, low but increasing in volume.
Scarface popped back up in full bristle, teeth bared and bloody.
Your blood. It took you a split second to recognize that.
You leapt up the stairs, four at a time. You had to lean more weight on your right and felt the tightness there turn to razor-wire. Then you were in the upper hallway and running, bounding, trying to remember what she’d said.
Third door on the left. Guest bathroom.
You collapsed into the third room, not caring if it was even the bathroom, just wanting to kick the door closed and shut out the beast.
You heard the door click shut and pressed your right foot against the wood, hoping to brace it, as if Scarface had become a battering ram with teeth.
You could tell he was out there, hear him gnawing at the door with the side of his mouth but finding no purchase. You reached up and locked the door. Gnashing turned to barking, furious guttural eruptions.
You worried about the neighbors being alerted but remembered what Ava had told you—the whole joint was supposed to be soundproofed since they used to get complaints about the studio bumping beats at all hours. You hoped it was true.
You flipped the light switch and caught yourself in the mirror, bloody and shaking, in track gear. The image ran surreal, like you’d been smacked down when a riot popped off in the middle of the Portland Marathon. But at least you had landed in the bathroom.
You were glad that the mirror had to come down—seeing yourself in that moment brought in a rush of feelings and questions that were better not contemplated. At this point it was action required, not thought.
You grabbed each side of the framed mirror, 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, and it strained your shoulders to reel in the compressed leather duffel bag at its far end.
Seeing the bag gave you new confidence. You’d found your grail, and your princess was waiting for your return. You re-mounted the mirror. You used a towel to clean your blood off the floor and then wrapped it around your leg to staunch further bleeding.
You heard Scarface’s paws thump against the door, nails scraping. He was not calming down, far from it. You scanned the bathroom for a weapon and found nothing that would allow you to confront the hound with confidence.
That left you with one point of exit—a small sliding window mounted above the shower.
You slid the window open and popped out the screen. You tied off the duffel bag to your CamelBak and used the vinyl cord to lower them both to the ground below.
The drop from the second floor was unfriendly no matter how you went about it, but 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 your back so you could somersault out of it.
This did not work.
Instead your left leg hit first and before you could shift your weight your knee was driven into your jaw. It was a world class uppercut delivered by yourself, and it had the added benefit of forcing your teeth to crunch together. A tiny piece of the side of your tongue was severed clean and before you could register what you were doing you had swallowed it. For a moment everything was fireworks and copper and dust, and then your brain cleared out a
nd you realized that you had made it.
Your contraband was to your left, Scarface was a distant (if still voluble) threat, and you were only a quarter mile from an angel in waiting.
What you didn’t expect was… well… any of it. Not really.
Ava was at the meeting spot, a dusty trailhead near the Wildwood hiking areas. So that part matched up with how you’d pictured it.
She’d stepped out of the car and closed the door. She’d left the headlights off and you couldn’t see her that well. You’d taken longer than expected to reach her, moving along with a pretty decent limping trot, and you began to apologize.
“Hey, baby, 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 and felt the fire where the darts had pierced 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. Soon Scarface would be gnawing the marrow from your bones.
But it was Ava holding the Tazer, and she wasn’t letting up on the volts.
Your right leg was folded underneath your body, and with the next blast of juice you felt your calf pull too tight. Your fragile IT band finally gave with an audible snapping sound. You would have screamed with this new agony 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 when you were zapped.
What the fuck was happening? “Ava…”
She turned the juice back on and grabbed the duffel. Clearly, she was not interested in conversation. She stepped closer to you and said, “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 to you. “You’re not coming with me, but you should still run. You probably didn’t even think of this, but Stump has a shit-ton of cameras in his house. Doesn’t really need them, not at his level, but they make him feel gangster. You’re definitely on tape. He’s no killer, but the people who supply him will not be pleased.”
She’d been rehearsing this. You could hear the exactitude in her voice. She was 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, how you threatened to kill me if I didn’t go along with it. You’d even joked about burying me right 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 strip club employees and patrons 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. Too much pressure behind your eyes.
She was not trigger-shy on the Tazer.
“Don’t try to find me.”
Another long jolt with the Tazer and then she was kneeling by your side, properly pegging you as too jellied to lash out. Even in the dark, you could sense she was smiling. She was back at your ear again, whispering, “I did love the ring, by the way, but I had to sell it today. Easier to send off the struggling single mother vibe without it.”
Then she was above you, and her breath smelled like black licorice, and she leaned in to kiss you on the lips.
And you, you sorry son of a bitch, you still wanted it, and when her lips met yours you closed your eyes and prayed for time to slow, so that it would never finish.
But it ended, and too fast, and she was up and the Tazer was left behind 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 then she was gone.
You alternately dragged and hobbled yourself about three miles before you realized that you couldn’t go any further, that dawn would come and that you were far too savaged for your runner’s ruse to help you.
You made it to a house which looked un-occupied and then found and memorized the street address. You crawled to the backyard to keep from being spotted on the streets.
You drained the water from your CamelBak but still felt Death Valley thirsty. All that electricity…
There was one stroke of luck in all of this. Ava had left you with your cell phone.
Call it an oversight.
Your first phone call was to your Uncle Joshua. He slurred a groggy “Hello?” upon answering, 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 the only remaining time you’d be able to do that together. He’d started to ask you questions, wondering about your late nights and your hitchy right leg. You’d cut him off and said, “Things are just kind of crazy right now. I met this girl…”
Uncle Joshua had started to laugh and let out a slow and knowing “Oh.” You’d worked hard to ignore your leg and pick up the pace. He got the message.
You hoped he’d pick up the pace this morning. You’d lost a lot of blood. How long did you have before Stump Lo 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, but you weren’t taking any chances. You crawled across the grass and spotted a large dog house at the rear left corner. From ten feet back you could see it was empty. It would have to work.
You crawled in and found it surprisingly plush. You figured this might be a figment of your shock and delirium, but you could swear 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 up against the rear wall and set your CamelBak on your burnt belly. You unzipped the pack and 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, without a doubt, but you wanted to move past that part of your life, past connecting to people through their things. You had a chance to be with the real flesh and blood girl, and starting out on such a psychotic note just felt wrong.
But once you were in her place, you couldn’t help looking around. You rifled the bag she had packed for your trip, wanting to see what kind of swimsuits she’d be wearing when she was laying next to you on the beach. What she might be wearing for you at night.
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 anyway, and this way you’d be certain that 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 the Portland Airport.
It was getting harder to breathe inside the dog house, and you noticed tiny silver sparkles in your vision that couldn’t mean anything good, but zoning on the photo in the passport made it easier to 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, and 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 sh
ort for Avarice.
He noted that the name seemed appropriate.
“More than you’ll ever know, pal.” You closed the cell and thought of her last words to you.
Good luck.
Your chest began to shake.
You were still laughing when your Uncle Joshua had arrived and spotted your running shoes sticking out of the tiny house in the stranger’s yard. He crouched down and looked you over.
“Jesus! Are you okay?”
In between gusts of mad laughter you managed to say, “No. Nope. I’m in a bad place. I’m going to have to run.”
“Alright then. We’ll get to that. First, let’s get you out of that fucking dog house so somebody can take a look at you.”
It was hard work, but 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. You couldn’t help it—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 again, knowing that somehow he would understand: Yes she pulled me into this and yes I was a sucker and now I’m in real trouble and yes I thought it was love and yes I’m so glad you’re here because you’re the only person that really cares for me and the only thing keeping me from falling permanently into hate and yes I sold her out but only because that’s where she’d taken our game and yes I’m still remembering her kiss and yes the very 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 oh yes despite it all Yes.
You began to shake but kept yourself from crying. Your Uncle could tell you’d just dropped over the threshold of what your mind could handle. You kept nodding, locked in. You started to mumble: OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod….
“Okay, okay. Take it easy. Trust me, you’ve just hit the wall, and you know that’s as bad as it gets. I’m with you and 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.”
We Live Inside You Page 20