by BJ Bourg
My heart sank. She wanted this fight more than anything and she would be devastated if she had to cancel because of an injury. I dropped to the chair beside Melvin and waited…and waited.
Finally, about thirty minutes later, Susan was pushed out in a wheelchair. Her leg was extended straight out and there was a cast around her lower right leg. Her jaw was set and I knew she was angry.
“It’s okay,” I said when she stood and took the set of crutches from one of the nurses. “I’m sure you’ll get another opportunity to fight Ivanov.”
Susan didn’t say a word as we walked out into the parking lot, and the only sound was that of the crutches clattering against the concrete parking lot. Melvin had stayed behind to wait for the hospital to release Rick, at which time he would transport the murderer to the detention center in northern Chateau.
I reached out to open the door for Susan when we got to my Tahoe. She handed me her crutches and stepped into the passenger seat without much trouble.
“I’m still fighting,” she said after I had pulled out of the parking lot and driven a few miles down the road.
“You can’t fight!” I stared at her in shock. “You have a broken leg.”
“That no one will know about.”
I recognized that look in Susan’s eyes. There was no use arguing with her. She was going to do what she wanted to do regardless of what I said or did, so the best thing for me to do was just shut up and support her.
CHAPTER 53
8:38 p.m., Saturday, October 29
Houston, Texas
I should’ve been relaxing. I’d spent the past three weeks working tirelessly to close out the case against Rick, exhume the body of Baby Drake, and help Detective Yates build his case against Melissa.
The coroner had recovered an oblong projectile from the remains of Baby Drake, and after it was compared to the revolver and projectiles from both shootings, we were able to confirm that the revolver was used to kill our canal victim, Larry Cooper, and the infant. The prints from our victim matched the fingerprint card from Sheriff Burns’ employment records, confirming he was our canal victim. The blood I’d recovered from the field behind Dire Lane matched the ex-sheriff’s DNA, and his toxicology came back clean.
I’d returned to Tennessee and found Fowler Underwood back at his house. He admitted to helping conceal Melissa’s crime and tipping them off about Sheriff Burns, but he swore he never intended for Rick to murder his old nemesis. Detective Yates had sworn out a warrant for the arrest of Melissa Cooper and Rick Vincent for killing Larry and shooting Drake, but the authorities there hadn’t yet decided what to do with Fowler Underwood for breaking into Sheriff Burns’ cabin and posing as the former lawman.
Since Rick was making his way through our court system, Blackshaw County would have to wait their turn, but we had arrested Melissa soon after receiving the warrant, and she was set to be extradited to Tennessee within the week. Burton and Cindy, who were coping just fine, considering all they’d been through, had gone to live with Rick’s parents in Central Chateau. I dropped in to see them before leaving for Houston with Susan, and they were adjusting to their new environment.
After all of my hard work, I should’ve been relaxing and enjoying my time off, but that was difficult to do while I watched the woman I love getting pummeled.
CHAPTER 54
I was sitting at the edge of my seat in the front row nearest the cage, and I was watching Susan trading blows with Antonina Ivanov. Susan looked as focused as I’d ever seen her, and I couldn’t help but admire her firm body wrapped in her tight fighting shorts and snug-fitting shirt. Even the blood dripping from her nose looked sexy, but I winced as Ivanov connected with a two-punch combination, snapping Susan’s head back.
Damian Conner pounded on the chain-link fence and screamed at Susan to take Ivanov to the ground. “Stop trading with her!” he hollered. “Take her to the ground and finish her!”
Either Susan couldn’t hear or she was ignoring him, because she continued to stalk her opponent. Her hands were high in the air as she doggedly moved forward, but it was impossible for her to block all of the Russian fighter’s strikes. Immediately after Ivanov delivered another three-punch combination, Susan shot a left round kick to her midsection, followed by an overhand right that seemed to rock Ivanov.
I cheered my approval, but sank back in my chair when Ivanov shot a push kick to Susan’s chest that nearly knocked her on her butt. Susan immediately executed a right roundhouse kick to Ivanov’s thigh, and she stumbled as she placed her weight back on it.
Although her doctor had advised her not to fight with a cracked fibula, Susan had stubbornly ignored him. After wearing the cast for two weeks, she had removed it herself and began using a compression wrap for support. While she felt the fracture had mended, Damian devised a game plan around her injury and insisted she avoid executing kicks with her right leg. “And I want you to take her down as soon as you get the chance,” Damian had instructed. “The quicker it goes to the canvass, the better your chances of beating her.”
I’d seen the look in Susan’s eyes when he said it and had groaned. I knew right then that she was going to attempt what no fighter had ever accomplished before—she was going to try and beat Antonina Ivanov at her own game and knock out the undefeated Russian. At the moment, it wasn’t going so great. Susan had just walked into a straight right hand from Ivanov. It was a power punch that had felled many of her previous opponents, but Susan continued forward. I could tell she was stepping a little gingerly on her right leg and her footwork was not as fluid as it had been earlier.
I glanced to my right, where her mother was seated. Lisa Wilson had her hands up to her face and she jerked each time Susan got hit. Mrs. Wilson was a small-framed woman who was timid and appeared frail. Other than the streaks of white, her hair was the same color as Susan’s, and so were her eyes, but that was where the similarities ended for the two women. I didn’t know if she would be able to endure watching this brutal slugfest.
The crowd screamed in excitement and I turned just in time to see Susan delivering the last of a punch-kick combination that knocked Ivanov backward into the cage. The Russian fighter lifted her arms as Susan side-stepped to create an angle and then fired off two more punches. Just when I thought she was going to take charge of the bout, the bell rang to end the first round.
I sank back into my chair and ran my fingers through my hair. Damian hurried into the cage with Takecia Gayle, who had agreed to work Susan’s corner with him, and they wiped the blood from Susan’s face while talking rapidly with her. I could hear Damian pleading with her to take Ivanov to the ground, but Susan didn’t respond. She simply stared across the cage in the direction of her opponent. I got the feeling she’d rather die than take the easy way out of the fight, and that scared the crap out of me.
“Is it always like this?” Lisa asked, leaning close and raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. Her chin was shaking and her face was paler than usual. “Does she always get beat this bad?”
I shook my head. “This is the toughest fight of her career.”
“Oh, dear,” the elderly woman said, wringing her hands and shifting her eyes around the arena. “I don’t know how much more of this my heart can take.”
“Your daughter’s as tough as they come,” I said, trying to reassure both of us. “She’ll be just fine.”
She just nodded and sat on her hands. I looked past her to where Allie and Sammy Boudreaux were sitting, their eyes wide and excited. Susan had obtained complimentary tickets for them to sit at ringside, and it was clearly the highlight of young Sammy’s life to that point—maybe even Allie’s. Susan had assisted Allie in finding a job and they had located a cozy little apartment that Allie and Sammy could call home. Allie hadn’t wanted to return to the home she used to share with Jake. Since the district attorney’s office had indicted Jake Boudreaux on charges of attempted first degree murder, she didn’t have to worry about him anymore. He would be si
tting in jail until his trial, at which time he would go away for at least fifty years. After reviewing the evidence against him and his past criminal record, his attorney was already talking plea deals, but the DA wouldn’t agree to anything unless Jake remained in prison until he was too old to hurt anyone again.
As the referee called both women to the center of the ring to begin round two, Damian yelled, “Take her to the ground—for God’s sake, do it!”
Susan bit down hard on her mouthpiece and swatted at a stream of blood that had started leaking from her nose. Her jaw was set and her eyes bore straight into Ivanov. I’d seen that look before, and I was suddenly afraid for the Russian.
As soon as the bell rang, Ivanov lunged forward with an overhand right that Susan deftly ducked under. Susan spun around to face Ivanov’s back. Instead of taking the Russian to the ground, Susan waited for her to turn.
“Jump on her!” Damian screamed, but his cries were lost in the roar from the crowd, who appreciated Susan’s willingness to stand and trade with the legendary striker.
As the two fighters came together, Ivanov landed a wicked left hook to Susan’s jaw, but Susan shot a right hand over the hook that landed flush on the Russian’s chin. As Ivanov reeled backward out of punching range, Susan switched stances to southpaw and delivered a left roundhouse kick to the Russian’s jaw that resounded throughout the arena and brought screaming fans to their feet. Ivanov’s hands and head went instantly limp and she fell like a giant tree. When she crashed to the canvass, she lay still.
Still in the moment, Susan charged forward—limping just a little—and had to be nearly tackled by the referee, who spun her away from Ivanov and then dropped to check on the unconscious former champion.
I was on my feet, jumping up and down like a young boy who had just scored his first homerun. Thin arms wrapped around me and I looked down to see Susan’s mom hugging me, tears of joy and relief streaming down her face. I hugged her and looked up. Susan was clinging to the top of the cage pointing in my direction. “I did it!” she screamed. “I actually did it! Now we can start having kids!”
Book Five:
BUT NOT FOR NAUGHT
CHAPTER 1
“Not for nothing had he been exposed to the pitiless struggles for life…” – Jack London (THE CALL OF THE WILD)
18 years earlier…
Sunday, June 14
Breechville, Kentucky
The young boy had spent most of the morning watching Stepdad dip a brush in a bucket and splash bright white paint all over the side of the house. He had begged to help, but Stepdad told him to go away, so he sat under a tree and played with his Tonka truck while keeping a curious eye on the progress.
He couldn’t tell time, but it wasn’t long after he and Sissy—it’s what he called his older sister—finished eating macaroni and cheese that he found himself all alone in the front yard with the bucket and paint brushes. Stepdad told him he couldn’t help with the wall, so he began looking for something else to paint. His eyes lit up when he noticed the old truck parked on the concrete driveway. He had heard Stepdad complaining to Mom about not having enough money to paint the truck. He smiled. Stepdad was always mad and saying bad words. This was his chance to make him happy.
The boy wrapped his small fingers around the bucket of paint and tried to lift it. “Wow,” he said out loud. “This is heavy.”
He started to slide the bucket by pulling on the wire handle, but it tilted over and paint spilled onto the dirt ground. He crossed his little arms and wondered what to do. He couldn’t ask Stepdad, because he wanted to surprise him and make him happy. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so mad all the time and he might not slap them anymore.
“I’ve got it!” The boy rushed to the bucket of water and removed the paintbrush from where it was submerged. He dipped the brush in the paint and walked across the yard and toward the truck, holding his left hand under the bristles to keep from getting paint on the grass. When he reached the truck, he started stroking the surface with the brush, smiling as the white paint began to cover the ugly color of the truck. “That looks better!”
The boy made trip after trip to the paint bucket. His left hand was covered in paint and he rubbed it repeatedly on his jean shorts, but he couldn’t get all of the paint off of it. His fingers were sticky and his hand smelled funny, but at least the truck was looking better. He was making another trip to the truck when the screen door opened and then slammed shut.
“Brother, what are you doing?” Sissy cried, running across the yard. “Are you crazy? Stepdad’s going to be mad!”
The boy smiled. “No, he’s going to be happy, Sissy. I’m helping him make his truck a pretty color.”
Sissy slapped her hands to her face. “We have to clean this right now. Go get the hosepipe.”
“But why? It looks so—”
“Just do it before Stepdad wakes up!”
The boy frowned. Sissy had never spoken like that to him and it scared him. Lowering his head, he trudged toward the side of the house where the green water hose was located. When Stepdad wasn’t around and Mom was home from work, she let them spray each other with the water, and he wanted to do that now. Smiling suddenly, he bounded the last few steps to the water hose and twisted the knob. He grabbed the nozzle and held it like a gun, aiming it right at Sissy as he ran across the yard. The water hose was long, and it slid behind him like a large green snake.
“I’m going to get you,” the boy shouted, smashing the nozzle and laughing as a stream of water shot in Sissy’s direction.
Sissy was on her knees rubbing a rag against the side of the truck when the water reached her. She screamed and jumped to her feet, startled and angry. Her wet blonde hair dangled in front of her face as she glowered at him. “Don’t do that! You need to help me—”
“What the hell are you doing to my truck?”
The boy dropped the water hose when he heard Stepdad’s voice. His knees began to shake and he watched in horror as the large man stomped down the steps, heading straight for Sissy.
“Why did you put that paint on my truck?” he demanded of Sissy. “What is wrong with you?”
Sissy shook her head and dropped the rag. “I…I was trying to clean it off.”
Stepdad lifted his hand high in the air when he reached Sissy and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for what she knew was coming.
“I did it!” the boy blurted, regretting it as soon as he said it.
Stepdad hesitated—his hand high in the air—and turned to look at him. “You did this?”
His teeth chattering nervously, the boy nodded.
“Get your ass over here,” Stepdad said, waving for the boy to join him and Sissy.
The boy walked as slowly as he could, keeping his head down as he approached the outer edges of his stepdad’s shadow. It made the man seem larger than life, and he certainly didn’t need any help. The boy had been on the receiving end of Stepdad’s anger many times, and he knew what was coming.
As soon as he made it to the driveway, Stepdad reached over and pulled him forward, knocking him off his feet. The boy fell to the ground and skinned the palm of one hand and the elbow of his opposite arm. Grabbing a handful of his hair, Stepdad jerked him upright. “Why the hell did you do that? Huh? Answer me!”
The boy just stood trembling, trying his best not to cry. He knew if he cried it would only be worse. When he didn’t answer, Stepdad slapped him right across the face, knocking him to the ground. His left ear rang and the side of his face stung. Stepdad’s hands were like sandpaper and it felt like his face was bleeding.
The boy pushed himself slowly to his hands and knees. He was dazed and his vision was blurry, but he could clearly hear Sissy yelling at Stepdad to leave him alone. He didn’t like it when Sissy got involved, because they both ended up getting beat up. He was about to tell her it was okay when Stepdad let out an angry snarl and shoved the palm of his hand roughly into her chest.
Sissy’s arms flailed into the ai
r as she fell backward. When she landed, the sound of her head smashing against the hard concrete reminded the boy of the time he slammed a watermelon on the road just to see what would happen.
“Sissy!” The boy lunged from the ground and rushed toward his sister, but Stepdad backhanded him across the chest and sent him sprawling.
“Get up, girl,” Stepdad said, glaring down at Sissy. “I mean it. If you don’t get up right now, I’m going to punish you for a week.”
The boy stared wide-eyed from his place in the dirt. Sissy’s body was shaking in a weird way but, other than that, she wasn’t moving.
“I’m not kidding…get up,” Stepdad said, his voice sounding louder. He reached over and, grabbing her by the arm, jerked her to a seated position. When he let go of her arm, she collapsed in a lifeless heap to the ground.
Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Is Sissy going to be okay?”
Stepdad glanced around the neighborhood. “Shut up and go inside—right now!”
The boy stood shakily to his feet and stared a second longer at his sister, whose lifeless body lay on the ground. She wore her favorite yellow dress and dirty white sneakers and the boy suddenly felt bad for spraying her with the water hose—
“I said get in the house,” Stepdad bellowed, shoving a finger toward the front door.
The boy rushed to the house and let the screen door slam shut behind him. He ran to the living room and then scrambled onto the sofa that was pushed up against the window. He watched through a crack in the curtain as Stepdad lifted Sissy into his arms and began screaming for help. Moments later, his cries got the attention of one of the neighbors, who ran outside holding a cordless phone in her hand.
Soon after, sirens sounded and a big square ambulance drove up. Mommy arrived a few minutes later and she ran to the ambulance people who were working on Sissy. The boy could hear Stepdad saying he came outside and found her like that. He wanted to run outside and tell Mommy he was lying, but he was too afraid.