by Dawn Mattox
Fire in Me
Dawn McKnight
Morningtide Publishing
PO Box 4262
Yankee Hill CA 95965
Copyright © 2018 by Dawn McKnight
All Rights Reserved
First Edition
ISBN-13: 978-0-9899102-0-0
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the express prior permission of the author of this book. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thank you for your support.
REVIEWS
Disturbingly realistic. One hell of a gripping story! If you read only one book this year, make it this one! I gave it to a friend, who gave it to a friend.
Paper View Book Club
Fire in Me was a mind bending, life changing story for me. I couldn’t put down! Sunny McLane gripped my heart and soul. I will never go back! Never be the same! Thank you, Dawn McKnight!!!
Fearless and Free (reviewer)
This book completely blew me away. Fire in Me is a wildly compelling story about the destructive ways that we hide our private sorrows and the consequences of such dreadful secrets.
Word Wise Book Reviews
OMG!!! Better than good! A psychological thriller that had me tearing through the pages!!! Fire in Me is a totally addictive book that I will read again while waiting for the next one. More please! I need to know what happens next.
Living in Suspense Book Club
Just plain brilliant! I was glued to the pages. The story was gripping and the men hot and sexy. Excellent writing. A true suspense thriller that I could not put down. Five stars!
Woman2Woman Book Club
Days later and I am still stunned! Possibly the most compelling book I have ever read. This book does not disappoint. I was captivated to the very last page.
Thrills for Life (reviewer)
Mainstream Christian and unafraid! How refreshing!! The descriptions are graphic but perfectly acceptable. This is a book that women of every faith should read!
Christian Suspense Book Reviews
ADVOCATE
Noun: believer, operative, intermediary
Verb: minister, caution, guide, prepare
The Inner Fire
“I survived because the fire inside of me burned brighter than the fire around me.”
~Joshua Graham
Table of Contents
Take me to the Action!
Take me to the Romance!
Fire in Me
Just Fire Bonus Chapters
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FIRE IN ME
Haunted by a past she hoped to leave behind, she'll learn to fight fire with fire…
Sunny McLane is no stranger to domestic violence. She survived being married to a sadistic Hells Angel outlaw, and now she uses the courthouse to help other victims survive. Sunny's court cases bring back painful memories, but nothing makes the horror feel as fresh as her ex getting out of prison…
When her former flame gets on the wrong side of both the law and the Mexican drug cartel, Sunny knows it’s only a matter of time before his trouble finds her. As Sunny fights her own battle at home and tries to stay one step ahead of her vengeful ex, she makes an inevitable decision: she refuses to be the victim any longer…
PART ONE
“I survived because…”
CHAPTER 1
“Please God, don’t let me die! I don’t want to die. I’m not ready. Okay—I’m ready—but I still don’t want to die.”
How many bones have I broken? I tried not to think about internal injuries, but the nightmare stories of motorcycle crashes roared through my brain anyhow, horror stories that always center on death and dismemberment. Everybody knows somebody who has died on a motorcycle. Warm blood trickled down my face—or was it tears? — It was too dark to tell.
My gloved hands kept a finger hold on the canyon wall, booted toes bit into the narrow ledge, heels jutted into outer darkness. The Harley was somewhere far below in the surging Feather River, and while it hadn’t been much to look at, it got me where I needed to go. Until today. Good thing I wore a helmet—California law. I was pretty sure my head was still attached to my neck. Life had been a maze of twists and turns, but I wasn’t prepared for the deer with the alien eyes standing in the road.
To hell with Walt Disney! Whoever thinks deer are Bambi-cute has never seen one straight ahead while doing fifty-five around a blind corner on a moonless night.
“I’ll never criticize deer hunters again. God... just let me live. I’ll join the NRA. I promise!”
I was losing my grip in every sense of the word. My hands had a tenuous hold on the rocks while my heart reached frantically for the spiritual one. Neither one seemed too promising.
One boot slipped sending bits of granite splintering and tumbling into the night. “Jesus! Help me!” I plan on going to heaven when I die—it’s just that I had other plans for tonight... like TV and a hot shower. What about my dog? Who will take care of Kissme? “Oh, God,” I pleaded, weeping bitterly, “Please... don’t let me fall.”
“Let go.”
The words rode the night breeze. Maybe I had a head injury after all.
“Let go!” Louder, stronger this time.
No headlights or people anywhere. Above me, a narrow, twisting highway gouged the slopes of the Sierra Nevada’s. Below was the distant rumble of the Feather River.
Beacon bright words sliced through the night illuminating the muddle of my thoughts. I recalled an object lesson about a mountain climber who died in the dark while dangling at the end of his rope. He kept hearing God tell him to “Let go”—but he was afraid. His frozen body was found the next day—hanging in the air just a few feet from safety. He didn’t trust God. He couldn’t “Let go!”
The fateful words returned. This time, a whisper, that drowned out the thundering rapids below. “I may not have a choice here, Lord,” I whimpered. Blood mixed with tears and coursed down my face. I was only twenty-nine. I hadn't hit the dreaded thirty yet, although thirty was sounding pretty good at the moment.
Motorcycles are my heritage, and I relish the wind washing over my face and the rush of unbridled freedom. But the iron horse is also a means of escape. When today’s crisis work triggered hellish memories that unleashed a storm of fear and anger, memories had sent me racing up the canyon, just heartbeats ahead of a pack of ghost riders on my heels; their captain, swathed in black, closing the gap until I swore—I could hear his familiar laugh.
The sixties were a bizarre time in American history and culture. It was also the time when the “King of Violence” wed the “Queen of Love.” Mom was looking for “peace and love;” Dad was just looking for a piece.
True love—cosmic fate—found them on the rolling green of Golden Gate Park. Miss Natural swaying on an LSD high to Jefferson Airplane’s “One pill makes you larger... one pill makes you small... and the ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all,” looking hot and easy to Mr. Born to Be Wild. A match made in heaven—Angels batting zero—Satan scoring a home run.
I was born in a rustic cabin about three miles from the tiny rural-remote community of Feather Falls in Northern California during the great hippie “back-to-the-land” movement of the seventies, daughter of passionate non-Christian political believers that “the end was near.” I was the only child born to Lefty and a free-spirited young woman named Starla before she left me to “find herself” as a tree-hugger in the California Redwoods. Later, she would go on to produce a rainbow assortment of colorful offspring fathered by one-night stands wit
h multi-cultural lovers.
Life had always been turbulent in spite of the solitude and tranquil environment. I recall the day the tsunami hit that forever changed the landscape of my life.
I walked home from the little country school much as I had for the past six years.
Frito, my one-eyed Chihuahua-mix (half Chihuahua, half gopher), laid in front of the door like the last forgotten chip at the bottom of an empty bag. He had one good eye, two good ears, and a heart the size of the giant cedars and ancient ponderosa pines that crowned our tired little cabin—more of a shack really—at the bottom of a long dirt driveway.
“Frito” I called, as I had each day after the mile-long trek home from school. Three grades in three rooms, it was the closest structure to our home in one direction, and neighbors Joyce and Kenny lived about the same distance in the other.
Ever vigilant, waiting for the sound of his tired mistress this time each day, Frito had exploded into life with happy yapping, exuberantly wriggling with uninhibited love. He alternately sampled nature’s pantry by licking my fingers, stained purple from wild blackberries I had devoured en route, and sniffing apples I had picked on the trail home.
I dropped the schoolbooks in a heap and we swapped kisses before I put him back on the floor, fearful that Starla would catch us and fulfill her threats to get rid of “that nasty little dog.”
“Frito, where's Mama?” I asked my ratty little friend whose breeding, much like my own, remains one of nature's mysteries.
Starla's absence was typical and Dad was rarely home before Friday night. Something felt different, and yet familiar. Something felt wrong. Frito whined anxiously, dogging my steps as we rambled from room to room. I searched past my tiny bedroom and through the living room and dining room that were divided by an old Franklin wood stove. I peeked into the large kitchen; it's inside walls covered with black felt paper and furnished with a small propane refrigerator, a large white Wedgewood gas-and-wood combination cook stove, a deep double sink, and a wall of cabinets.
Checking upstairs in my parents’ sanctuary-bedroom, I called softly for my mother in case she was napping or weaving on her loom or doing yoga. I didn’t want to disturb her meditations. No Starla. The walk-in closet (walk-in because it had no doors) revealed that her clothes and the large leather suitcase she had found at the local dump were missing. She packed that bag several times a year, whenever life became unbearable. Like a wild bird trapped in a cage, beautiful, colorful Starla had regularly beat her paisley wings against the bars of tradition, longing for freedom.
A familiar dread crept over me as I stepped through the sliding glass doors, searching for final confirmation. I noted Starla’s van was gone and sighed with relief that she had left Frito behind. Maybe it was out of the kindness of her heart, or maybe it was because she couldn’t afford his dog food. Most likely she had left him because he was a bed-wetter.
Sitting on the step, scooping my dog into a child's embrace, I mothered him, bravely mumbling words of encouragement.
“Don't be scared. I'll take care of you,” I hastened to assure both Frito and myself with a puppy-love hug. “We'll always have each other,” I promised. “And we have food,” I continued, considering the orchard, the chicken coop, and the bomb shelter Lefty had constructed just behind Starla’s all-natural Japanese bathhouse. We had a lot of survival stuff: toilet paper, MRE’s (Military Meals Ready to Eat), survival food that tasted like leftovers from World War I, guns that were probably smuggled back from Vietnam, and plenty of gasoline to feed the generator and Dad's Harley.
Lefty, my dad was a Hells Angel out of Oakland. His biker name was “Lefty” because he had lost his left hand along with parts of his mind and soul in Vietnam. He preferred a hook to an anatomically correct prosthetics. Yeah, he rode his Harley and he rode it with a hook. Lefty never made any modifications to the bike—except the night he got drunk and attached a hose clamp on the left grip to keep his hook from sliding off. Lefty did a lot of things with his hook—including beat my mom, the flower child.
Dad was the guy who came home mostly on weekends. He usually rode in with friends; “business” associates with party-hearty supplies loaded in their saddlebags. He also brought Logan home for my sixteenth birthday. It was a party to remember, a night impossible to forget. The night I met pure evil.
Jasmine was my first major case as Butte County’s new Victim Advocate and ultimately, it was the stress of this case that would lead me to the bend in the road, the deer, and a new direction for my life.
I instantly liked Jazz, as she called herself, and her two adorable little girls. She was twenty-three years young when we first met at my office. Bright and beautiful with golden dancing ringlets, she seemed to possess an air of childlike innocence that matched her appearance. Tucked behind her skirts were two of the sweetest little girls this side of heaven. Jazz will always have a special place in my heart. The first client always does.
After two years of internship with Butte County District Attorney's Office, I wrote the grant that established the first Special Victims Unit. My position, unique to the DA office, was “Advocate,” and my job was to integrate services between victims of rape and domestic violence and the justice system.
My work is all about setting boundaries, yet I readily swept them aside in a surge of generosity toward Jazz and her children. I broke the rules by becoming emotionally attached and using my personal money to buy them groceries. Both actions were “unprofessional,” but like most sin, it felt good at the time. I never paused to consider the consequences.
Jazz’s husband, Bryan, had moved the family to Butte County when he inherited a plumbing business and trailer in a park. Bryan had forced sex upon Jazz in front of their children. Unlike victims of domestic violence, victims of sex crimes have the power to choose whether or not to press charges. And she did press charges—sort of. When it came time for the preliminary hearing Jasmine minimized the seriousness of the assault and degree of her injuries when giving her testimony. Charges were reduced and Bryan snapped up the offer to plead guilty to sexual battery instead of spousal rape. Jasmine grabbed the girls and fled the 150 miles to the sleepy town of Mt. Shasta. Bryan served a little jail time but refused to pay his fine. He promptly filed for child custody and hired a process server as a means to locate his wife and family.
Mornings always begin with coffee. Coffee triggered the need for a bagel and cream cheese, which would go well with granola and yogurt, plus a healthy side of fresh fruit. I turned on the local news, sat down to indulge my cravings and promptly lost my appetite—throwing it all in the trash.
The lead story featured Bryan, who had caught up with Jazz and the girls in Mt. Shasta and severely beaten her. My stomach may have been empty, but my anger bubbled like a can of soda, dropped and rolling across a hot parking lot, fit to blow. I warned her. She was a fool to return to a place she and Bryan had shared in Mt. Shasta. Now Bryan was back behind bars, this time charged with Section §273.5 of the penal code for felony domestic violence.
Without intervention, it was likely that Jazz would minimize her injuries again. Women leave and return to their abusers an average of seven to nine times before making a complete break, whether it happens over thirty days or thirty years. It left me wondering if she would recant again.
No word from the news anchor on the whereabouts of the girls.
I struggled to calm myself. I knew that I couldn't blame Jasmine. Most people seek the familiar when stressed.
Wasn't I also a fool? Wasn't I hiding in plain sight from my abuser? What will happen when Logan finds me? My blood ran cold at the thought.
Bryan's vindictive assault on Jasmine had sent shockwaves of flashbacks through my system and fueled a burning need to get away. I needed to run, and my Harley was my drug of choice.
I flew up the canyon prepared for some emotional backlash. What I hadn’t prepared for, was the deer.
The Feather River Canyon is not a forgiving place, even for an experi
enced rider. Slashing its way nearly seventy miles through the heart of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, it finally comes to rest near Lake Oroville, not far below my home in Yankee Hill. The canyon walls shear off both up and down in places. Looking up is a neck-breaker and down is the Feather River in spring flood.
How long have I been hanging here? It felt like a lifetime. It would take a miracle for anyone to find me. Fatigue and dizziness washed over me. Gripped by cold and saturated with fear, shaking with violence that caused more rocks crumble, the fragile ledge finally gave way. Fingertips clinging to failing hope—“Agggh”—my body thrashed in space before final surrender. Pausing, hanging in midair for a moment, heartbeats away from wherever destiny would take me, I took a deep breath and replied to God's prompting. “Whatever you say, Lord.” I let go.
The steady thunk-thunk-thunk of the motor whipped the air as a man, wearing a “scream suit,” tethered to an OH-58 Kiowa Warrior helicopter above, began his daring decent. His official titles included Sergeant with the Butte County Sheriff's Office, Liaison between the S.O. (Sheriff's Office) and Butte County Search and Rescue, EMT (Emergency Medical Technician), and HRT (Helicopter Rescue Technician). His unofficial title was “Dope on a Rope.” The terrain was inaccessible by vehicle. He was on a “short haul;” slowly, carefully, the man and his K-9 partner, suspended on a 100 ft. line eased into the canyon. Man and dog. Later, I would learn that his name was Chance McLane, and his partner's name was Mercy.