Return To Paradise (Paradise Park Book 2)

by Carolina Mac

  RETURN TO PARADISE

  Book two in the Paradise Park Series

  Carolina Mac

  Copyright © 2017 by Carolina Mac

  RETURN TO PARADISE- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-988850-11-5

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  To Diane: An insatiable reader and my number one fan.

  When you can tell your story and it doesn’t make you cry, you know you have healed.

  ―LOVEANDGIFTS.COM

  CHAPTER ONE

  May 5th.

  ROB SAT ON the side of his bunk, hunched forward, his head in his hands. The day he never believed would arrive had finally come. His life had been on hold for the past four years, and now it was time. Could he do it? Self-doubt was rendering him almost immobile.

  Shake it off. Pull it together.

  He stood up, shuffled over to the cinder block wall and touched the scratches in the concrete. One for every day he’d been in that cell. Four vertical scratches with a line through the middle of each group of four. He counted by fives. He could count far better than he could read, but that was his business. Grace promised to help him with his problem, but that was before.

  This morning, he’d showered for the last time with forty other naked men, yelling, jeering and threatening each other. He’d eaten breakfast for the last time in the dining hall, watching his back and at the same time, trying to choke down half-cooked eggs and cold toast turned to cardboard. He’d lain awake all night for the last time, listening to the endless chatter in the range, and staring up at the sagging underside of the top bunk, listening to Felix snore.

  He’d done the time—seven years, less three and a bit for good behavior—although, what the powers that be deemed ‘good behavior’ in this place was open for discussion—and the burning question on his mind now, was—why in hell had he been so impatient to get out?

  What if he couldn’t make it on the outside?

  He forced his legs into action, rose to his feet and paced while he waited—five steps and turn—five steps and turn—the length of the cell and back to the door—like a caged tiger. Anxious to be free yet wary and hesitant.

  What the hell was he gonna do with no place to go, no job, no money, and worst of all—no Grace?

  “Looking good, Robbie.” Felix lay on his belly hanging over the side of the top bunk, one skinny arm trailing down. I’ll miss you, man.” His voice cracked a little. “Best cell mate I ever had.” A tear rolled down his ebony cheek and bounced off the concrete floor. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his pillow. “Who’s gonna watch my back after you’re gone? The brotherhood will be on me like fleas on a hound. I’ll be dead in a fuckin week.” A sob escaped his throat and he buried his fuzzy head in his pillow.

  Felix was right. No doubt about what was coming his way. Without Rob keeping Frobisher away from Felix, an emaciated black kid without gang affiliations and some kind of protection had no chance against the Brand. Before Rob could make up a lie to make Felix feel better, the buzzer sliced the conversation in half and the lock on the steel door released.

  A big, burly guard with Simon stitched on his shirt stood in the opening, his hand resting close to his duty belt. “Time to go, Eastman.”

  Rob grabbed up the bag holding his few possessions and without looking back, gave Felix a two-fingered salute as he left the cell.

  Walking alongside the guard through the wide corridor of the range that had been his home, Rob was the focus of the other inmates. They hollered out parting words. Some friendly. Some not so. After so many years, Rob knew the voices of each one.

  “See ya’ Eastman.” Chart.

  “Hope you make it.” Ricer.

  “Be afraid, Eastman. Be very afraid.” The low growl of contempt came from Cyc Frobisher. Then Frobisher laughed and his followers down the block joined in. Laugh when the boss laughs if you know what’s good for you.

  Assholes. All of them.

  Rob didn’t have to see it. He could picture it and he wanted to puke. Frobisher would be naked in his cell. Jerking off or crapping on the floor and finger painting on the walls. Showing his power. Shaved head shining. Ugly tats on his face. One front tooth missing.

  Rob winced, and his fingers touched the unhealed gash on his cheek. He kept in step with the guard and passed the long row of cells without a word.

  AFTER A COUPLE of boring hours sitting on a hard bench outside the Warden’s office, staring at a green cement block wall, the warden’s assistant showed himself. A scrawny little man with a pock-marked face, he puffed out his concave chest as best he could and said, “You’ve been processed-out, Eastman. Here’s a copy of your paperwork.”

  Rob nodded and accepted the Manilla envelope. He shoved it into the bag with the rest of his stuff and followed the assistant through the labyrinth of corridors and hydraulically locked steel doors to the exit. The bright light of day caught him by surprise when the front door swung wide, and he wished he had his shades. Where was the last place he put them? Had to be in the saddle bag of his Harley.

  Wonder what Grace did with my ride?

  One of the corrections officers took over from the assistant warden, and walked Rob from the front of the main building to the four-foot warning fence that ran inside the thirty-foot razor fence. From there he could see the gun towers in each corner of the yard. Those dudes on watch salivated like starving dogs for some asshole to shoot at.

  The big, sweaty C.O. stood watch as the guard in the gatehouse checked the paperwork and released the lock. “See you back here soon, Eastman.” The guard chuckled and gave the C.O. a knowing look.

  Resisting the urge to display his expanded vocabulary of useful descriptors, Rob paused outside the fence, turned and gave the ugly corrections officer a hand signal—one that couldn’t be construed as a friendly wave.

  VEHICLES WHIZZED BY as he trudged along the road from the prison towards the closest town. Signs were posted on all roads leading from the penitentiary, warning motorists not to pick up hitchhikers. What the hell? Would they release a con that was gonna kill the first person they saw when they got out? Guess it could happen. Not much brain power wasted on the prison management team. He could attest to that. He should have made notes Grace could’ve used in her books. Had more than four years to come up with that idea and didn’t think of it until now.

  The air was fresh and breezy near Lake Ontario, and he didn’t mind the four-mile walk into town, but he didn’t have the right boots for it. He hadn’t worn his Harley boots in so long, they hurt his feet with every step. By the time he reached the town center, he was sure he had blisters on both his heels. Rob thought he
was in great shape, but if he was, why had his breathing had gone for a shit? He should have been able to do five miles without breaking a sweat.

  Needing a plan, he paused to focus on the businesses on main street. Wedged between a jewelry store and a dry cleaner, he zeroed in on a diner half a block down. A red neon ‘open’ sign burned bright in the front window. He entered the small restaurant, picked a booth near the back and ordered a coffee.

  “Nothing to eat?” asked the waitress.

  Rob thought about it, but the air in the place hung heavy with the smell of grease. He shook his head and settled for coffee only. After a much-needed bathroom break, he wanted some down time to chill for a few minutes and plan his next move.

  The waitress, a pudgy lady in her forties dressed in tight black pants and a black t-shirt, brought his coffee, set it down in front of him and stared. And she had a lot to stare at. A blue bandana Grace had given him was knotted around his forehead, keeping his long black hair out of his eyes, colorful tattoos covered both his arms—and other places not so visible—a fresh scar highlighted his face, barely healed but beginning to scab over, courtesy of Cyclone Frobisher, and then there was the body. She stared hardest at the muscles he’d worked on the last four years. Not much else to do in prison but work out in the gym and in your cell. He looked away from her curious gaze and reached for the sugar.

  People in this town must be used to cons getting released every day of the fuckin week. Why’s she staring like she never saw one before?

  FORTIFIED WITH TWO cups of strong coffee, Rob hit the highway running north out of town. The prison was on the shore of Lake Ontario and there was no way to go but north unless you were a strong swimmer. He had to get to the 401 to get back to civilization—or civilization as he knew it—once upon a time nearly four years earlier. Seemed like a lifetime.

  He’d jogged along the side of the highway for a couple of miles, not expecting a ride, when he heard the roar of a big rig behind him. Instinctively he turned, walked backwards and stuck out his thumb. Pain in the ass for the driver to gear down, stop and pick him up, but that’s exactly what the guy did.

  With a loud hiss of protest from the air brakes, the bright aqua cab stopped next to him. Rob grinned, jumped up on the side-step and pulled the door open. “Hey, thanks, buddy. Appreciate you stopping.”

  A big guy with long hair and several tats filled the driver’s seat and flashed him a grin. “No problem. You just get out?”

  “Am I wearing it like a fuckin sign?”

  “Yep.” He chuckled then stretched a hairy arm across the console. “I’m Dave. Seen the inside of that scuzzy hotel once myself and don’t care for a repeat visit.”

  “Hear ya.” Rob settled into the leather seat and tossed his bag onto the floor. “You heading east or west when you hit the highway?”

  “West. Load on for Mississauga.”

  Rob nodded. “Good enough.”

  “Guess you don’t got a home to go to, or somebody would’ve picked you up.”

  “You guessed right, Dave.”

  Dave turned up the volume on the country station, hummed along with most of the songs and concentrated on his driving. He didn’t have time to say a helluva lot—the two westbound lanes were jammed with trucks jockeying for position, changing lanes and trying to make time to Toronto.

  The lack of conversation suited Rob. He felt like a fish out of water and he had a lot of thinking to do. Short of money with nowhere to land, and no prospects for the immediate future, were just a couple of the things weighing on his mind and making him uneasy.

  He tried to relax and take it one hurdle at a time. Riding in the eighteen-wheeler reminded Rob of his neighbor in Paradise Park, Lonnie Chandler, and his huge purple Peterbilt. He’d hated the guy when he first met him, but when things went south—who did he trust to take care of the one thing he loved above all else? Lon Chandler.

  Was Lonnie being good to Grace and the baby? Was she happy? Only one way to be sure—and he had to be sure—he’d have to go back to Paradise Park and see for himself.

  AFTER THREE HOURS of staring at the white line, the big rig slowed at the junction of highway 115, the main route heading north from the 401 on the east end of the Greater Toronto Area, which now spread from Burlington in the west to Clarington in the east. Rob reached across the console and shook Dave’s hand before he hopped out. “Thanks a million, man. I owe you.”

  Dave grinned. “I’ll be by to collect.”

  It was a short walk from the on-ramp where Dave, the trucker, let him out, up the highway to the closest Harvey’s. All but deserted in the middle of the afternoon, the girl in uniform behind the counter wore a bored look on her face as she filled stainless steel bowls with tomato slices, onions and sliced pickles. When Rob entered the restaurant, and moved closer to the front counter to order, her brown eyes sparked a bit of interest.

  She moved to the computer screen, ready to take his order and managed a half-smile. “What can I get for you?”

  Because he’d had four years to think about the first thing he’d order when he got out, Rob didn’t hesitate. “Double cheeseburger, large fries and a large Coke.”

  When his burger came off the grill, he loaded it with onions, mustard and ketchup. He turned around with his tray in his hand and had his choice of any table. He chose one next to the window wall where he had a clear view of the parking lot and the door.

  He was half way through his burger when a few kids came in after school for fries and a Coke. They checked him out, thought better of bothering him and sat on the other side of the restaurant. Smart kids.

  THE MAY AFTERNOON temperature climbed higher and higher as he stood on the side of the on-ramp trying to catch a ride. If he didn’t get picked up on the ramp, he’d have to walk north through the fields or get fuckin arrested. No hitchhiking on the 115. Some crazy rule made by some stick-up-her-ass woman in Ottawa who’d never been short a ride in her entire fuckin life.

  A half hour standing in the sun and his black Harley shirt was soaked through and sticking to him like a second skin. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck from his long hair. He swiped at his forehead with the back of his forearm and mumbled a curse. One more minute and he’d start walking. Had to. His fuse had grown shorter and shorter in the slam. The expiry date on his patience had been passed long ago.

  Rob picked up his bag and turned to start walking. How far was it? Forty fuckin miles? Funny how he’d driven the same route every day from his welding job in Oshawa, and now he couldn’t remember how far it was or how long it took. The only thing firmly entrenched in his mind was Grace—the way Grace looked and smelled—the way her voice sounded when she said, ‘I love you greatly, Robbie,’ and how good she felt in his arms at the end of the journey. Nothing else mattered.

  A gray pickup with patchy spots of rust over the wheel wells put on the brakes. The driver backed up a few feet and Rob climbed in. “Thanks for stopping.” He dropped his bag down beside his feet.

  “Hot out there. You been waiting long?”

  “Close to an hour, I guess. Just about to start walking.”

  “That might have bought you a ticket.” The driver lit up a smoke and offered Rob the pack across the console.

  “Thanks for the ride and the smoke.”

  “Uh huh. Where you heading? Lindsay?”

  “Not quite that far. Know where the trailer park is on the west side of the highway?”

  “Yep, I know it. My mom used to live there a long time ago. She was friends with the old super. Forget his name.”

  “Mr. Deegan,” said Rob. “Haven’t thought about him in a while. I think he retired before I left.”

  “You been gone a long time, son?”

  “Couple years.” He didn’t offer any details.

  “Deegan was as old as the hills when my mom lived in the park. Chances are he’s dead and buried by now.”

  Rob blew a cloud of smoke out the open window and wondered how much things had chan
ged since he’d been gone. “Could be.”

  THE DRIVER SLOWED the pickup down and eased onto the shoulder across from the park entrance. Rob thanked him, jumped out and waited for a couple of cars to speed by, then ran across the two-lane highway.

  He glanced at Lonnie’s driveway and didn’t see the big Peterbilt parked next to Lon’s trailer.

  Probably on a run.

  When he got closer, as he jogged down the short gravel street, Hickory Lane, he realized a vehicle he’d never seen before, a red Ford Escape, was parked next to Lon’s deck. Rob stopped, took a closer look and shrugged. Maybe Lonnie moved into Grace’s trailer. They didn’t need two—that was if the big trucker had manned up and taken care of Grace like he was supposed to.

  The last thing I wanted to do when I went to prison was give Grace up to that jealous trucker, but I had to. The baby was coming, and she needed someone.

  There was no vehicle in the driveway of the trailer next to Lonnie’s. Grace worked at home writing her books. Where was her black truck? Why did everything look so different?

  You’ll never find anything out standing here.

  Rob sucked it up, walked up the steps onto the deck and knocked on the door.

  An old woman with long gray hair hanging shaggy over her face like a witch or one of those old healers that lived in the woods answered the door. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Grace Whitmarsh,” said Rob. “Doesn’t she live here anymore?”

  The old woman shook her mop of hair and Rob expected her voice to come out in a cackle. Instead, she spoke softly. “No, Grace doesn’t live here. She rented me this trailer when she moved to Texas with the truck driver next door. He sold his place, I believe, but Grace wanted to hold on to hers for some reason. Hope she doesn’t come back for a while. I like living here.”

  “Uh huh.” Texas? Lon must have taken the Texas job he was talking about. Rob shifted his weight on his sore feet as he digested the information. “Would you happen to know what she did with the Harley that was in her shed?”