Jennifer takes another drag. "He could be watching us right now," she says.
Lenise steps forward and looks out into the night. "Asshole."
"I won't argue with that."
"You don't think he would do something stupid?"
"I got a restraining order," says Jennifer. "They went to serve him at work but he wasn't there. He's lost his job."
"I've seen this sort of thing before. Men who can't let go. They can be very dangerous when cornered."
"He's too weak for that."
"Don't be naive," snaps Lenise. "And don't think that restraining order will save you, either. A piece of paper will mean nothing to him and police can't be there 24/7. You know how the rest goes."
"I'm scared he might take McKenzie."
"Or worse."
They fall silent and look out at the woods.
"Do you have a gun?" says Lenise.
"What? Of course not."
"A gun in the hand of a woman is a great equalizer. In fact, women have the advantage because men never think a woman will have the guts to use it." Lenise looks at her watch. "I have to go."
"Wait," says Jennifer. "How would I get one?"
Lenise laughs. "This is America. There's a gun shop on every corner."
17
Jennifer enters Guns and More and the smell hits her like the fourth of July – raw grease and explosives. She had intended to browse quietly on her own but realizes that will be impossible when she sees the layout of the shop. Wall-to-wall guns. Big ones like they had in the military, on racks and mounted on the walls, price tags looped around their triggers.
Over to the left, a locked steel cage holds more guns. The sign above says hard to find items. The "more" in the "guns and more" was apparently fishing rods, intimidating-looking crossbows, and other hunting supplies. Apart from a bearded man browsing leather waders and the woman behind the counter, the store is empty.
"Need help?" The voice belongs to the woman. Sixties, grey-haired. There's an id badge pinned over her left bosom, her photo and her name – Leonie U.
"I'm looking for a hand gun."
The woman nods at the glass counter in front of her.
"Forget about that one," says Leonie U, pointing to a large silver gun. "That's a 44 magnum. Way too heavy and way too messy. You'll want a 22. It's lighter, easier to handle, not much kickback and the like."
Leonie U unlocks the cabinet with a set of keys from her neck chain and takes out a compact gun not much bigger than the palm of her chubby hand.
"Looks like a cigarette lighter don't it? Don't be fooled, though, this sweetheart can be just as effective as the Magnum if pointed in the right direction. Shoot and aim. That's all there is to it. Men try and make out like it's rocket science or something but that's just to make themselves look better. Here."
She places the gun in Jennifer's hand. It's cold and heavy despite the size.
"It's just for show, really," says Jennifer.
"You want to scare someone?"
"If I need too."
"No ammo then?"
"Maybe a box."
Leonie U reaches into the cabinet, pulls out a red box of ammunition and puts in on the counter next to the gun.
"We got a firing range downstairs if you want to pop a few shots. Five dollars for thirty minutes, plus ammo."
"I'm okay."
The woman lifts her chin to a glass cabinet.
"What about a suppressor? I got a nice one there for a 22 that's user serviceable. Off the books, of course. They ain't strictly legal in Wisconsin."
"That won't be necessary."
"Driver's license."
Jennifer hands over her license and watches the Mickey Mouse clock on the wall behind the counter while Leonie U fills out the paperwork. When the woman finishes she hands Jennifer the carbon copy.
"Come back in 48 hours and you'll be good to go."
"I can't take it now?"
"The DoJ needs to run a check first. It's the law. You got no record then you got nothing to worry about."
"But I need it right away, for safety."
Leonie U must have heard the panic in Jennifer's voice, because she lowers hers and says, "You got a stalker or something?"
Jennifer nods.
"My husband."
Leonie U goes silent.
"Alright," she says finally. "Let's do it off the books, in the name of the sisterhood. But not this one."
She turns from the counter, disappears into a back room and emerges a few minutes later with a bundle in a yellow chamois. She starts to unwrap it, but changes her mind. She looks at Jennifer.
"You a cop?"
"What? No way. I'm an optometrist."
Leonie U nods. "Yeah, you don't look like a cop."
She unwraps the cloth to reveal a similar sized gun.
"It's much the same but unregistered. Cost you an extra fifty, though."
"I appreciate it."
"No problemo," says Leonie U, slipping the gun and ammunition into a paper bag. "Just remember, shoot and aim – for the head if possible. You don't want that son of a bitch getting back up again."
18
The father will never let Jennifer and the girl go just like that. Men were too full of their own self-importance to permit the woman to simply walk away. Lenise had seen it too many times before.
She'd been watching over them, acting as a guardian of sorts. But she never saw him. He was like a vampire, staying in the shadows. Oh, he was out there somewhere, she could sense his presence, watching and lying in wait, and it was only a matter time before he struck.
It felt good to have a purpose, given Cody was gone.
He called the other night – collect of course – and she immediately demanded to know what he wanted then instantly regretted sounding so harsh.
"Calm down, Ma. I just wanted to see how you are."
If she had told him once, she'd told him a hundred times – Don't call me Ma. It made her sound old and ruined by life. But tonight she didn't mind. It was just good to hear the sound of his voice.
"Do you want me to send the rest of your things?" she asked.
"Leave them. You never know when I might be back," he said and her heart had done a leap.
He sounded bright, and she wished she could be happy, but it made her feel sad. She nearly told him everything – how she lost her job after being set up by Radley, how she had to pawn the last of his grandmother's jewelry, how she was days away from having an upturned hat on the pavement begging for change. She even thought about asking him to send money but lied instead, and told him she was doing just fine.
"I'll visit when I can," he said.
And afterward, when she had returned the phone to the cradle, and heard the mindless chatter of her fake friends on the radio, she wished he had never called at all.
*
Lenise spends the day handing out her resume to retail outlets and gas stations and grocery stores, and, the lowest-of-the-low, fast food restaurants. It's a major step down but she's desperate. She tries not to think about what life will be like with her hair smelling of fried meat. She doesn't bother with real estate agencies because she knows she'll be blacklisted. For a second there she considers returning to the Brook River office and going postal but decides Radley and Camille are not worth the jail time.
Some of the halfwits she encounters have the nerve to tell her she's not experienced enough. Real estate is a professional role, she had insisted to the Burger King Manager, a spotty kid not much older than Cody, and when he had laughed and said don't you mean parasites, she could have punched him in the face.
After four hours of pavement pounding, Lenise decides she's done for the day and turns for home, walking back to save bus fare. She is thinking about whether it's worthwhile registering with a temp agency for cleaning work when she rounds the bend into Simeon Street and sees McKenzie duck into the Safeway.
Lenise isn't sure if it's the furtive way the girl had looked over h
er shoulder, or the way she slunk down into that oversized jacket of hers, but Lenise is intrigued enough to follow McKenzie inside.
She's careful to keep her distance as McKenzie browses the sunglasses stand, scans the shelves of pet food then moves to the laundry aisle. Lenise shoots to the next row, picks up a jar of apricot jam and feigns interest in the nutritional label, and keeps watch as McKenzie studies the feminine hygiene section. Then, before Lenise can blink, McKenzie reaches for a douche product and slips it into her bag, then just as quickly, hand sanitizer, antibacterial soap, a bottle of disinfectant, and a box of latex gloves.
McKenzie spins around and heads for the exit. Lenise follows at a clipped pace. But before McKenzie makes it to the door, a security guard steps in her path.
"Open your bag for me, miss."
McKenzie clutches the bag to her chest.
"Why?"
"We reserve the right to check," he says, jerking his thumb at the sign by the entrance doors.
Lenise hurries over.
"There you are," she says.
She looks at the security guard. "What's going on?"
"This your daughter?"
"Yes."
"I need to look in her bag."
"What, that? The reusable tote we use for shopping?" She looks at the guard and laughs. "Oh, I see, you thought she was stealing. We were just heading to the checkout to pay for our items."
She takes McKenzie by the arm. "Come on, child, stop bothering the busy man."
She feels his eyes on them as they head to the check out. He continues to hover as the groceries are scanned and bagged and Lenise pays for them with her last twenty dollars.
Once a safe distance from the store, Lenise turns to McKenzie and detects the faint whiff of disinfectant coming from the girl's clothes.
"You're not using that to wash with are you? It will burn."
McKenzie blushes madly. "It makes me feel better."
"You'll do damage if you're using it down there," says Lenise.
McKenzie nods at the bag.
"Can I have my stuff?"
Lenise hands it over. McKenzie starts to walk off then changes her mind.
"You won't tell Mom, will you?"
Lenise looks at her.
"Not if you don't want me to."
McKenzie pauses and looks her sneakers.
"I'll pay you back," she says.
Lenise thinks about how many meals that last twenty dollars could have bought.
"Call it a favor."
19
The day has been a long one. Jennifer sits in the lounge, as she has these past six nights, listening to the click of the portable heater switch on and off as if it can't make up its goddamn mind. Her woolen jersey is buttoned all the way to the top and she's yanked up the thermostat as far as it will go, but there's still a chill she can't shake. It never seems to leave. But it's too early in the season for a fire. Besides, that would mean going to the shed to gather wood and she does not want to be outside alone at night.
Security is her principal concern right now and she's developed a routine of sorts that at least allows her to get some rest each night. First, she checks the windows and locks twice. She's meticulous, making sure the window latches are down as far as they will go and fixed into place, putting the key into each and every lock, opening and closing them, inspecting the mechanism to be certain it's functioning properly. Second, she waits until McKenzie is in bed then inspects all possible entrances, including the front and back door, the ranch sliders, and the garage entrance. Third, she makes sure her cell is fully charged and in her pocket and that the landline is working. Fourth, she repeats steps one through three until she is satisfied that she's left no stone unturned.
Yesterday McKenzie caught her in the act.
"I'm being over-cautious, I know," Jennifer had said.
"You always think the worst."
And Jennifer had to look away then, because written all over her daughter's face was the clear indication that McKenzie thought this entire mess was somehow all her fault.
Maybe they should just leave. Start over somewhere new, back in Chicago. But the thought doesn't bring Jennifer much solace. Sell her practice? Leave everything she had worked so hard for? Disrupt McKenzie's life even more? And why should they be the ones to go when Hank was the one to blame?
She stares at the cup of coffee long gone cold and thinks about slipping out to buy a pack of cigarettes now that she's had a taste. But she doesn't of course. She can't leave McKenzie alone in case he comes back. Instead she scratches at the loose thread on the sofa arm and looks at the dish towel, the quaintness of the green apple print strangely perverse given the cargo hiding beneath it. She thinks about how the gun feels in her hand, rigid and heavy, like a car part, and the bullets, cool and smooth, clinking like leaden marbles in the hollow of her palm. Pushing those tiny missiles into the chamber had left a smear of grease on her fingertip and she can smell it now, the smoky sap-like odor, and feels oddly comforted.
She grows sleepy and spreads out on the couch, pushing the damask cushion behind her head. God she's so tired. She shuts her eyes and tells herself to relax. Everything is secure. Everything locked tight. No-one can get in. She repeats this until her breath grows low and heavy and she fades into a dreamless sleep.
*
She wakes up with his hand over her mouth. He is behind her. She knows the sound of his breath.
"I just want to talk," he says.
Startled, she yells out against his palm.
"Quiet," he warns.
She obeys and he lowers his hand and circles to face her. He looks lucid and together – freshly showered, cleanly shaven, hair neatly brushed, like he is going on a job interview or a date. She can even smell the Ultra Tide on his clothes.
"I had to do this. I knew you wouldn't let me in otherwise."
"You need to leave," she says.
He nods but sits down beside her.
"Let me make it right, Jen. I know I've got work to do, but with time we can be a family again."
He places his hand on hers but she throws it off and gets to her feet.
"I said get out!"
She makes a dash for her phone, fully expecting him to stop her, but instead he says –
"Go on. Call them."
She hesitates as if it's some sort of trick.
"There's a reason you can't, Jen. In your heart you know we can work through this."
"Work through this? Are you completely dumb? You've been abusing our daughter for God knows how long then sleeping next to me like all is good in this world. Don't you know how sick that is?"
"No one feels worse about this than me."
She shakes her head, incredulous.
"You don't have any idea what you've done, do you?"
He reaches to touch her. "Jen."
"Get your hands off me!"
His touch turns vice-like and his face hardens.
"Give me a chance, Jen."
She tries to twist away, but he squeezes tighter, mashing muscle against bone.
"Let go!"
Sweat breaks out on his upper lip. "You're not going to ruin our family, everything we've worked so hard for."
She struggles against him. He grips harder.
"Stop it!" she cries.
He slams her onto the couch. Oh God, the gun, she needs the gun. She tries to pivot for it but he pins her down with his right knee and the green apples remain hopelessly out of reach.
"Hank!"
He puts his hand across her mouth and she screams. But the sound goes no further and all she can think of is the gun, centimeters from her head, the gun that would stop him in his tracks. He pushes up her skirt and tugs at her underwear and Jennifer tries to bite but can't get traction. He unzips his pants and loosens his grip and Jennifer takes her chance and powers her knee into his groin, throwing him off. She grabs the gun and points.
"Get out."
Her hands are trembling.
&n
bsp; "Really, Jen. A gun?" he says.
He lifts his chin and touches the space between his eyes. The gun rattles in her hand.
"You can't do it, can you?" he says.
She straightens her arms and cocks the trigger.
"I said get out."
Then he smiles and reaches over and takes the gun. She can't believe it. It's as if he's removing a dangerous object from the hands of a child.
"What's going on?" calls McKenzie from the top of the stairs.
"Hon, stay there," says Jennifer.
McKenzie's jaw drops. "Freaking hell, is that a gun?"
"Come down for a minute, Mac," he says.
"Don't listen to him," implores Jennifer. "Go to my bedroom and call the police."
But McKenzie runs down and turns to Hank.
"Dad what are you doing?"
"I want you know I'm sorry Mac," he says, "for all of it."
McKenzie's face softens. "I know."
"It's too early for forgiveness but I hope one day you can."
McKenzie doesn't answer.
"Mac?" he whispers.
"You hurt me."
He begins to cry. "Oh God, Mac. I know."
He looks at the ceiling and chokes back sobs and starts thumbing the safety catch – on/off/on/off. Jennifer feels weightless. Every little thing, every sound, movement, smell, seems magnified.
"Dad?"
But he isn't listening and Jennifer's ears begin to ring – a high pitch flat line like a TV warming up.
"Hank, please," says Jennifer.
Her throat closes in on itself. They were going to be a page three newspaper story. Their bodies would lie here undiscovered for days.
"Give me the gun," she says.
He shakes his head.
"No."
He presses the barrel flush against his temple.
"Daddy!"
His eyes flip open and he turns the gun on McKenzie then on Jennifer.
"We go together," he says.
He reaches for McKenzie. "She goes first, so she doesn't have to see you die."
Then everything's a blur. Jennifer is running for him, knocking him to the ground, the gun skittering across the floor. He grunts and tries to throw her off.
"Run!" she yells.
"I don't want to leave you," cries McKenzie.
The Devil's Wire Page 8