by Dawn Mattox
Sugar? Honey? Not Blood and Guts or Smith and Wesson?
“Come on babies.”
Babies?
The voice hastened to assure us; “Dan’t worry. They won’t bite chew.”
Dang! I hate it when they say that. It’s like a nurse saying, “This is only going to hurt a little.”
Keira stood on the porch with an adorable little rag-tag waif clutching her leg and a tiny baby in her arms. With luck, she hadn’t seen me Frisbee her dog into the canal. It wouldn’t make for good rapport.
“‘Bout time someone took a hand to that dawg. It skeers me haf to death,” she said as she let Shugar and Honee, her “babies,” into the house.
Keira was wearing a sheer shift held up by an embroidered stretch band. Her wild, tousled, mousy brown hair was piled on top of her head. She had a naturally pleasant face, naked eyes, and bare feet. I liked her. She reminded me of the gentle, wild animals that inhabit the forest.
“Your dog scares you to death?” I asked her with a laugh.
“Not my dawg,” she explained. “Folks jus drive up here from Or’ville and dump their pets so they don’t have to pay pound fees. Por’ things just go wild.”
Keira’s face lit up when she saw Travis come through the gate. I knew by her look that Keira hadn’t turned lesbian from her sexual abuse. Most women understandably do double-takes on Travis. He exudes a masculinity that is different from Logan or Chance.
It’s hard to explain. Logan is lean and dark. He radiates “bad boy looking for a good time” and comes across murderously dangerous. Chance, on the other hand, emits a sexy contrast of physical toughness tempered with sensitivity. He is a man's man as it were. You know: the rugged, battle-scarred soldier tenderly holding a newborn baby in his arms. That is a perfect picture of Chance.
But Travis? I would say that Travis is more like Michael, the Archangel. Clean, with an understated presence of power. A force for good and an enforcer of justice. Under his clean, athletic exterior, he exudes the inner calm and intense focus of a Samurai warrior. He’s definitely someone a bad guy would not want coming after him. I guess one could say that Travis feels like a lethal weapon.
Travis and I made our way indoors, through the maze of toys and piles of clothes and what-nots. I tried to avoid thinking about the what-nots. Shugar and Honee took up their posts as sentries in the hall and kitchen doorways, eyeballing us like steaks on the barbee. Travis wisely remained standing while I sat on a sofa with a huge wet spot. Oh Lord, don’t let that be what I think it is.
“No, thanks,” we chimed to Keira’s offer of something to drink. Travis took the lead with a series of investigative questions that went smoothly until Keira popped out a boob to feed the fussing baby. The Samurai lost his cool for a nanosecond and then continued.
The little girl, her long hair tangled and dirty face shining with curiosity had been studying Travis. Venturing away from the security of her Mom, she made her way toward Travis and reached up to touch the gun under his coat. “S’at?” What is it about this man that inevitably attracts females? And how is it they know something special is under his clothes?
Travis didn’t respond. He just moved out of her reach. I thought for a second how Chance would react in Travis’s place, and knew that he would pick the child up in his arms, call her by her name, and tickle her until she squirmed with joy, helping to her forget all about the gun. Children love Chance and Chance loves them.
A car door slammed and we all jumped. Okay, Travis didn’t jump. Samurais never jump. All eyes turned toward the living room window looking out at the county car. Paige finally felt it was safe enough to make her way up to the house.
“I’m gonna go on Dr. Phil.” Keira beamed. “The world wants to hear my story. Least that’s what they tell me.” She blushed. “I’m gonna be famous.”
A shriek pierced the air and grew louder as Paige broke into a sprint, ran up the walkway and crashed through the front door, tripped and went sprawling into a pile of dirty clothes heaped on the floor. I guess the Rottweiler wasn't dead after all.
Not missing a beat, I redirected my attention back to Keira.
“Keira, I’d like to work with you regarding the TV show. I think the audience would like to hear the whole story. You know, so it’s not just a tease? Maybe it would be a good idea to postpone your appearance until after sentencing.” Travis smiled at my strategy. “Then everybody will get to see how the story ends.”
Shugar and Honee bolted from their posts toward Paige, who took one look at them and scrambled madly back to the door she had just come through, pit bulls in pursuit.
Keira continued to suckle her child, looking thoughtfully at the door as the pits collided into each other, snarling and bickering as the screen banged shut in their faces. “She sure is a nervous one,” Keira observed as Paige doubled back to the car.
We smiled and nodded in agreement. I had just started talking about preliminary hearings when screaming broke out again. We all moved quickly back to the living room window. Paige was almost to the car, having slammed the gate behind her only to find the Rottweiler closing in fast. Yanking at the car door, ‘Cujo’ latched on to her coat sleeve. Paige managed to lose the blazer and jump into the car, leaving her smartly tailored pant leg caught in the car door for the dog’s newest amusement.
“That dawg don't seem right in the head,” Keira observed. “I do believe he was bred a little too close to kin.”
Stunned by the remark and considering the circumstances, Travis and I exchanged uncertain looks. As in so many of our cases, there are times when you don't know whether to laugh or cry.
I wrapped things up, referred Keira and her children to Victim Witness Services and gave her some brochures and my card. Keira packed her boob back in her dress and we said our farewells to her and the “babies,” Shugar and Honee. The little girl approached me shyly and offered me a piece of candy, spitting it into her grubby hand and holding it forth like a treasured offering.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I said, taking it from her. “I’ll save it for later, after lunch, okay?” Travis and I stepped outside when I was hit with the realization that I too, had started life as a ragged waif of an abused mother just about ten miles farther up the mountain from where we stood. The thought raised a lump in my throat and an ache in my heart. I felt sorry for my mom. She didn't deserve what my dad had done to her. I could see why she had left me. But suddenly, with a substantial measure of guilt and an overwhelming ache in my heart, I missed my dad more than words could say.
The Rotty sat to one side watching the car. He turned to smile at me, ears perked, wagging his stump. I tossed him the candy and slid in the car. Paige was crying in the back seat, mascara running down her face.
“That went pretty well, don’t you think?” I asked Travis.
He popped a fresh stick of gum in his mouth. “Yeah, I thought it went pretty good.”
We drove back in stony silence, each of us lost in our private thoughts. I thought of Lefty. Travis looked like he was thinking of Paige as he kept an eye on her in the mirror. Paige was probably plotting murder. Her face smeared with a mixture of dirt, tears, snot, and mascara, she leaped from the car when we finally parked in the remote parking lot—livid.
“You can’t get away with treating me like this! This isn't what I signed on for!”
Paige looked like she had stuck her tongue in a light socket. She’d returned with with frayed pants, bruised knees, hair like Jerry Seinfeld’s Kramer, and eyes popping with rage.
“You think this is funny? I'll have your job!” she raved.
Turning, I scanned her deliberately from head to toe. “You stink,” I remarked. “Probably the dog poop on your coat.” Then, placing a hand on my cheek in mock surprise, added, “Oh... my-bad... maybe it’s... you?”
Escalating into a shrieking banshee, Page was spitting venom. “You no-good slut! I slept with your husband! How's that for a laugh? And he wasn’t all that good!”
Tr
avis stared, speechless, as I exploded with laughter.
Who was she calling a slut?
Catching my breath, I said, “You can keep him, Paige. You deserve each other. He told me you weren’t any good in bed either.”
Spinning away, I sauntered off to my car, confident that my defiant look, carefree strut, and lying mouth had managed to fool everyone. Everyone but me.
Logan was back with a few of the brothers after a long weekend down in Laughlin, Nevada. I had begged him to take me with him, but he brushed me off, saying, “You can’t come. It’s business, babe. I love you,” he had added with a kiss, handing me an envelope full of money to buy food and necessities.
Logan was usually generous with the money as long as there was lots of food and beer at the house. He didn't care if I bought clothes as long as he liked them. He made me keep the receipts and return the clothes he didn't like. I accepted this because he reminded me all the time that it was his money.
Lefty had done lots of business at the cabin. Lefty’s business consisted of selling pot, hashish, and cocaine. But Lefty didn’t come up much after Logan got out of the hospital. Probably because Logan was promoted to Sergeant at Arms and was wearing the club’s TCB—Taking Care of Business—patch. It was now Logan’s sworn duty to take care of both the club members and their families, which included me and ironically, a sworn responsibility to take care of Lefty, too.
Logan’s business was different than my dad’s had been. Logan dealt meth and guns—lots of guns. And it was probably gun business that took him to Laughlin. I wanted no part of Logan's business dealings.
I pouted when the guys took a second “business trip” without me, heading back to Laughlin just two weeks later. But I ran downstairs to greet them when they returned, pulling up next to the cabin in a cloud of dust. Logan arrived with Skunk, Matt-the-Rat, Fast Freddie, a guy whose patch told me he was a brother from a German Hells Angel’s MC, and to my utter amazement, one Mongol and one rider from the Bandido Nation.
Crossing club lines was a very dangerous thing to do. It was as shocking as looking at a herd of wild horses and seeing a zebra and a camel running in the mix. Sure, they all have four legs, but that is where the similarities start and stop. It just isn't done between one-percent gangs.
Rushing out to greet them, I could hear Logan raging over the roar of the engines.
They shut down their machines and Logan carried on as the riders dismounted and followed him indoors.
“They’re dead. The dirty S-O-Bs just gunned them down. They are so dead! I’m gonna kill ‘em... all of ‘em!” Logan shouted, waving his arms in the air.
“Who’s dead? What are you talking about? What's going on?” My words jittered inside of me like the staccato rapping of a woodpecker tapping on a rotten log.
The men remained silent, grim, and tense.
“Who’s dead?” I shouted.
Panic gripped my heart, dread nipped at my heels as I trailed a furious Logan who continued to blaze his way through the cabin, slamming doors and kicking over furniture.
No way! Don’t let it be...
“Lefty and Digger. Popped Lefty twice in the head and shot Digger right in the heart.”
Logan turned his back to me as he dug through the refrigerator and tossed beers to the boys. “Don’t worry, Sunny,” he said, turning around and finally making eye contact. “I’ll kill ‘em for ya. I swear it! Every damn one of them!”
Time stood still, the world went sideways, and all the demons in hell partied as I dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
CHAPTER 11
“… and more rain is expected to fall across the already flooded regions of the Ohio Valley, Indiana, and Mississippi today. In New Orleans this morning, levees are reported to have broken, flooding the city as the already swollen river...”
“Here Kissme,” I called to my little dog who spun in a circle before taking the proffered toast. A dirt bike screamed past my road and I looked out the window to see a thick cloud of dust rolling in like a fog bank along a beach.
It was a petrified-bone-dry 105º degrees and the dirt road to the highway was two-inches deep in pale ivory dust. Ghostly white footprints trailed indoors and out. The South and Midwest were flooding, and California was in its tenth year of brutal drought. I looked wistfully at the clouds drifting in from the north. The morning weather report included the possibility of showers and thunderstorms, but I shook my head in disbelief. The reporter must be from out of state because everyone in California knows that thunderstorms and lightning might happen, but rain isn't on the menu this time of year. I get a more accurate forecast by looking out my kitchen window across the valley.
A storm was building both outside and in. Being a strong respecter of privacy rights, not to mention Logan’s training, I never went through Chance’s personal items before coming across the message on his cell phone. It was time to stop being stupid and start ferreting around. The temperature soared to a fever pitch as I tossed the bedroom closet, desk, and all his other phone messages—not without results.
It didn’t take long to find damning evidence; a condom in the pocket of his tan suede shirt, multiple cash withdrawals at the casino's ATM, Paige’s phone number in his contact list along with a couple of nude pictures of her privates. There were three other text messages Chance must have kept to stroke his ego; one self-proclaiming “nasty-girl,” the second, “you’re sooo sexy,” and the third and worst, “does she know?” I wondered how Chance answered that one.
The house phone rang, and I didn't need Caller ID to tell me it was Chance. There was no use putting him off. If I didn’t pick up, he would be sending out the cavalry. He left me no choice.
“Hey, sweetheart, I’ve been trying to call you for three days. I’ve been worried sick about you. Where have you been? Is everything okay?”
And then… I lost it.
I let loose with, “I know about you and Paige!”
He countered with “Let me explain,” was followed by something about being “So sorry” and “Please don’t leave me.”
Someone yelled, “F-You! I hate you!” and I am pretty sure it was me. The Bible says “out of the mouth comes issues of the heart,” and my heart was blowing like a geyser—or perhaps a broken sewage main for a major metropolis.
I tried to change. Honestly. I’d given up swearing so I wouldn’t sound like Logan and company who can't communicate any other way. The new me never-ever swears. Except when I do.
Then came a flood of tears on both sides—shattered trust and receding dreams—the sound of something dying. A sound as old as the ages.
One-one-thousand...Boom! One-one-thou...Boom! One-Boom! Boom!
I lay in bed hugging a trembling Kissme, counting the seconds between flashes of lightning that lit the bedroom like a newborn sun. A mysterious cold front from Alaska had crept down to battle with the sweltering valley heat, casting towering pillars of clouds like so many siege towers against the impenetrable Sierras.
Boom! Boom! Boom! I wanted to die. Boom! Boom! It was so hot. If only it would rain.
“An unprecedented lightning storm has hit northern California. Simply amazing that the storm lasted as long as it did. Five to six thousand lightning strikes” said Del Walters, assistant regional chief of the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection. “We are finding new fires all the time.”
The morning news went on to report there were over one thousand active fires burning; seven hundred just in our area. Where would they find enough firefighters?
“It feels like the end of the world,” I told my dog. And for me, it was, the end of my world.”
Kissme seemed to understand as she licked the tip of my nose, or maybe she just wanted breakfast. The news was all bad, both personally and locally. The fire burning at Concow Lake was just five miles away. It could be here in an hour if the wind shifted. Two more fires were burning to the east, up the canyon by Scooters Café and to the north near Jordan Hill. Another bloomed
in the south, near the community of Berry Creek. I made the usual coffee and shared my toast with Kissme.
“Girl,” I said, “we are surrounded by fire on three sides.” She turned in a circle and didn’t look too worried, so I tried to feel the same.
The local news preempted regular TV programming: “Our most critical lightning events often occur in late July or August, and we have no expectation that this season will be different.”
Great... just great. It was the end of May and hard to believe there would be anything left to burn by July or August.
I carried the phone with me out on the deck to see smoke rising on the other side of the valley, just below Paradise Ridge. I swallowed hard. That would be west, completing the circle. I needed to call work and give them an update.
“District Attorney's Office, this is Gayle.”
“Hey, Gayle. Just calling to check in with you.”
The wheels of justice never stop, even when faced with acts of God.
“Oh Sunny, are you okay up there?”
“Yeah. I’m okay, but we're on standby evacuation. I won’t be coming into work today. Got to pack—again. The news is calling it a firestorm.”
“You're not alone,” said Gayle. “We have dozens of people calling in. Jack knows what's going on. Don't worry about work. Is Chance there to help you?”
“No... Chance is still in Louisiana doing rescue work from Katrina. He probably hasn’t heard about the fires up here.”
“I’m sorry. Rex and I want you to know that our home is open to you and your animals if you need us. We have it all figured out. We’ll put all the dogs in the yard and all the cats in the garage.”
A montage of images tripped through my brain: Mercy, the Queen of Destruction, returning from Louisiana and using Dinky Dog, their miniature doxie, for a squeaky toy. Then there was Chance’s collection of some six feral cats from various rescues along with their cats—all bouncing off their garage walls in the Ultimate Cage Fight.