Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  Giving up, I drove back up the road feeling bad for the snake I had probably left with a permanent limp. Pulling into the empty parking lot at the Grange Hall, I wept bitterly.

  After the snake incident, I realized I was moving into a new phase of my pending divorce. It had begun with shock, denial, and complete immobilization while Chance was in Louisiana. After Chance had moved out, I felt an overwhelming emptiness. No hope or light; just a void in my soul. There came a day when I heard a wounded animal wailing in the distance, before realizing it was me.

  Now I entered into phase three; righteous anger. Mt. St. Helens had nothing on me after the drive down Dark Canyon.

  I drove back home, pretty sure that if I saw Chance coming the other way on his bike, I would be flattening my second snake of the day.

  I hadn't returned any of Chance’s calls since my check-up and close encounter with the alien snake. I needed to know first if Chance had infected me with a life-threatening disease. We needed to talk, but I didn’t know what to say, so I screened my calls and ignored everybody:

  “Sunny, this is Travis. Pick-up.” Nothing more. Click.

  “Sunny, this is Chance. Pick-up.” Nothing more. Click.

  Sunny, this is God. Pick up. Nothing more. Click.

  In blocking communication with others, I had severed my connection with God. He was so distant! Or maybe it was me.

  The plate of leftovers sat cold and uninviting before me as my thoughts drifted to soul food. Having been betrayed by my friends, I was left to reconsider the One True Friend: The One who cannot lie. The One who is closer than a brother. The One who will never leave me or forsake me.

  “Maybe, God’s is the only love I need,” I told Kissme, who watched me expectantly, “except for you. For that matter, maybe God’s is the only love worth having.”

  I scratched her head. She didn't look too worried. I turned to Isaiah 54:5. “Your Maker is your husband, and Lord Almighty is his name.” This was an eye opener. Who needs more than one husband? What a concept. I could have an intimate, one-on-one romantic love relationship with God himself.

  Paige smirked as I passed her on my way into the office. She looked like a cat in spandex that had devoured a low-fat canary. The eyes of the secretaries tracked me as I carved a path into the refuge of my office. I imagined everyone thinking, Sunny must have been a lousy lay. As if it were my fault Chance had been unfaithful.

  I always hungered for Chance’s touch, could never get enough of his love. Maybe because touch was the only expression of love I had ever known. I thought that touch was how men show love, and if he wasn’t demanding sex all of the time, he didn't care about you. That had been my experience.

  “You have a one-o’clock coming in.”

  Startled at the sound, I looked up to see Paige posing in the doorway. I took a deep breath and counted to four. It wouldn’t look good to be seen rolling around on the floor yanking each other’s hair out.

  “Paige, I expect you to knock from now on.” Being nice to her in the past had only gotten me where I was this morning: miserable and broken hearted. “Who is it?”

  “Courtney Hill. You know... Silicone Woman?” she smiled, flexing her brows suggestively.

  “Thanks. You can leave now.”

  “But...”

  “I said, ‘you can leave. Now!”

  I can be a cold-hearted b-word and still be professional. “I’ll take it from here.”

  In spite of my misery, I was curious about the woman that the male Investigators called Silicone Woman. However, I was in for a big disappointment. Meeting Courtney Hill only confirmed my suspicion that I will never understand men.

  I expected a pair of monster chesticles, but hers didn’t look any bigger than mine. Well... she didn’t look any bigger than Paige’s silicone job. But Courtney did fit the California-blonde stereotype; her bleached hair highlighted with wild, kinky multi-toned strands, oversized hoop earrings, a pair of tight short-shorts, black suede ankle boots, a white tank top that showed off her studded navel ring, and enough cheap perfume to gag a horse.

  Maybe she wasn’t a natural bombshell, but it was evident that she thought she was. And maybe that is what men pick up on—attitude. Maybe that is what Chance detects when he is around Paige, a pheromone attraction.

  No, I had to admit, Paige really is younger and prettier than I am. But then, so are a couple of other women at church who peek at Chance when he isn't looking. The thought only added to my confusion and depression.

  “Hello, Courtney. Why don’t we talk in my office?” I brought her some coffee and she sat on the sofa, pausing to gaze at the small table fountain that highlighted my relatively small room. Investigators design interrogation rooms with discomfort as their primary objective. They even shorten the front legs on the suspect's chair to force them to lean forward. The intent of my office is to soothe trauma victims by creating an atmosphere of safety, tranquility, and peace.

  Courtney sipped her coffee and summarized her story.

  “I got back from Thailand about ten days ago. I was Army trained and did two tours in Iraq. I am an expert with MWD’s—Military Working Dogs—as a handler. In my last year of service, I met Reilly, my current boyfriend, who just came back from Afghanistan. He was a specialist on the base, an instructor in advanced hand-to-hand combat. Reilly was discharged about eight months after me. About three weeks later we got an offer from the Thai government to come over and do some training with their troops; me working canines and Reilly teaching hand-to-hand.”

  This is good. I always appreciated something a little different on the work menu.

  “We were only in Thailand for a week when Reilly hit me for the first time. He punched me right here,” she said, pointing to her left cheek, which made me note that he was probably left-handed. “It just got worse.” She started to cry and I handed her a box of tissues. “Pretty soon he was hitting me all the time. So I ran off. I came home, but I know he’s coming for me.”

  “How do you know he's coming?” I asked in a soothing voice.

  “He left a message on my phone that he was on his way.” Sadly, she had erased the message. “I need a protective order now!” She didn't know that emergency orders are rarely issued during daylight hours. Courtney sobbed. “I have this baby-blue convertible Corvette, and I just know Reilly or his friends will see me driving it around town.”

  Duh! “Have you thought about getting a less obvious car; a generic one with a hard top? Or maybe dying your hair?” I asked. Or putting on some clothes?

  She looked at me like I had completely lost my mind. “Are you serious? No way! I love my car.”

  Do you love living? I nodded.

  “I’m freaked out. Reilly’s bringing in guns,” she continued.

  “What do you mean 'he’s bringing in guns’?” The warning light between my ears began to blink.

  “I mean guns. He’s smuggling guns in from Thailand.”

  Ooh, boy! “Excuse me for just a minute while I get my partner, Travis.”

  We spent the rest of the morning sorting out the details of Courtney’s story. Basically, we had a highly trained killer who beat women. He was flying into Texas tomorrow in a quasi-military aircraft with some private contractors, bringing with him several crates of illegal guns he had purchased in Thailand. Reilly’s plan was to transport them in a U-Haul up to Reno and then cut over into California and head for the Bay Area, hoping no doubt to swing by for a quick visit with Courtney on the way.

  I shuddered, recalling the guns and the kind of men who dealt them when I lived in Feather Falls.

  After Courtney had left, Travis and I walked downstairs and out to the roach-coach. It was my first day back following my leave of absence and I was feeling painfully awkward as I avoided eye contact with everyone.

  Travis paid for both of our coffees over my objections, saying, “You owe me now. Let's talk.” Reluctantly, I trailed him back to his office where he promptly closed the door without a second thought
to office gossip.

  His office was as sterile as ever, except for his warm masculine scent that shadows him wherever he goes. Travis, who never missed a thing, studied me a moment and then continued to speculate about Courtney.

  “She got to you, huh? You seem... disturbed by this case.” I pulled the guest chair off to one side of his desk, and he rolled his over, close to mine. Reaching out, he asked, “Memories?”

  “Yeah,” I confessed. “My ex had a thing for guns.” It was tempting to talk with Travis about Logan.

  “Tell me about it.” Travis prodded.

  I needed to trust somebody.

  “I don't know,” I hesitated, “as a friend or a cop?”

  “I think we're more than friends, babe,” he said with a grin. “Don't you trust me?”

  Blushing, I was surprised to feel more than embarrassed. I still felt guilty, even ashamed.

  Before I could turn away, he laughed lightly. “Sunny, are you blushing?”

  My face heated like a blowtorch as he caught my arm. “Come on! Babe. It's all good. It's no big deal. What's wrong?”

  No big deal? No big deal! I almost had sex with him and he thinks it’s no big deal?

  I sputtered, “Travis.” Okay, I’m off to a good start. “I'm sorry.” Progress. “I made a mistake.” Maybe. “I'd like to forget what happened at the house.” Never. I squared my shoulders and looked up in time to catch a glint of gold flashing through the green of is eyes.

  He gave a slow tight smile, his brows tightened. “Okay,” he said slowly. He gave a little shrug. “You can forget if you want, but I'm not likely to. However... I respect your wishes and even apologize for my... unchivalrous behavior. Boy Scout's honor,” he added crossing his heart.

  His answer rang as hollow as the beat of a wooden drum.

  He’s making fun of me. The thought hurt.

  “Seriously,” he said, “we’re friends. I don't want to lose that.”

  Hope renewed, I smiled as we toasted the truce with cups of coffee.

  “So where did you and Paige go when Jack sent you guys to the Bay Area?”

  Travis froze for a nanosecond, then thawed and exploded into laughter.

  “Are you jealous?” he laughed. “You had me going about just wanting to be friends.” He laughed again, wiping a tear from his eye in hilarity.

  I huffed. “Knock it off, Travis. I said friends and I meant friends.”

  The now-composed Travis repented. “I'm sorry to hear that.” His forehead wrinkled in thought. “So, let's talk some more about guns.”

  Carrying around the burden of my past, the mess that was my present, and the fears I imagined for my future was exhausting. I was tired, and something was encouraging in the way he patiently waited. I desperately wanted to trust Travis, and ultimately, it wasn’t our brief moment of lust, but his willingness to set lust aside that helped me take a tentative step.

  I took a deep breath and told him briefly about Logan and the other bikers who had buried money and stashed crates of guns in the bathhouse.

  Travis’s eyes burned with interest. “Are they still there?” followed by a rapid-fire line of questions and digging for details: Who? What? Where? When? Why and How? Travis would have made an excellent journalist.

  Once a cop, always a cop, I thought sadly. “I don’t know. It was a long time ago.” Being in command of my own inner-galactic starship, I raised my deflector shield and radically changed course.

  “Travis,” I said, dropping my gaze and softening my tone, “I only have a few more minutes, and I have a weird guy-question I'd like to ask you. It's about Silicone Woman.”

  “Fire away,” he said, his eyes fairly danced with amusement.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I was disappointed when I saw her. She didn't exactly live up to the label.”

  “And?”

  “And... well, what is it that guys see in women like her... and Paige,” I added.

  Travis didn't hesitate.” Paige is hot and Courtney is easy. Uh, let me rephrase that. Courtney is easy, and Paige is hot and easy,” he added in jest.

  I studied my cup. “Is that what it takes to get a guy?” I looked up for an answer and to see a shadow of sadness fall across Travis's handsome face.

  “Usually,” he said. “Men are pretty easy, too,” it was his turn to stare thoughtfully into his drink, “but it takes more than sex to keep one.”

  Travis shook off his mood and returned to the subject of guns, pressing me again until I became upset.

  “You said I could talk to you as a friend and not a cop, remember? Men are all alike.” I rose and huffed my way out. I escaped the interrogation but not the terrible memories the day had resurrected.

  Logan and the boys laid low for over a week before they decided to take action. Logan was super-saturated with adrenalin, spending his evenings smoking crack cocaine before heading to bed to torment me for the orgasm that the drug kept him from achieving.

  “What’s wrong with you? Get with it Sunny!” he roared.

  I imagined my face burning in the dark knowing that every man in the house was lying downstairs listening to Logan thrashing and raging.

  “Logan, stop. You’re hurting me!” I pleaded in a desperate whisper.

  “You think that hurts? We’ll try this...” Each night the rape started and sex finally completed. But that wasn’t all that began that week. Deep inside my womb, a tiny seed was planted. Sown in pain and watered with tears, a child, sweet and innocent was conceived.

  Then they were gone, back to Oakland. A few days later Logan returned with two men that I recognized even without their colors. They were the Mongol and Bandido riders who had ridden back from Laughlin with the news that my dad had been killed.

  Driving a pickup truck with a camper shell, they stayed long enough to bury a metal ammo box full of money in the woods and haul about a dozen oblong crates into the bathhouse. Later, Logan would get his MC Brothers to help move the guns down into the bomb shelter.

  “Where did you get all those?” My eyes rounded as my fingers trailed along the rough surface of wooden crate. “What are they?” I asked, curious but frightened by the men and their sense of urgency.

  “That's money, honey. M-16s. Fully automatic assault rifles, each one capable of firing 750-900 rounds per minute,” Logan answered with arrogant pride. “Now shut up and take this.” He left me with some cash and an ominous warning. “I wasn’t here, Sunspot, and don’t you forget it!” Then he kissed me and left.

  Gayle had been a guest when Chance and I married. When she invited me to lunch, I couldn’t say “Yes” fast enough. I was tired of Paige’s catty looks and avoiding the halted conversations between secretaries whenever I walked into a room. I was also avoiding a disappointed Travis, telling him over the phone that I was meeting Gayle for lunch.

  We met at Checkers, a little nearby restaurant run by high-school students learning the hands-on trade in a program called Careers in Food Service. We made small talk as plates of chicken parmesan and pasta arrived with garden salads and breadsticks on the side.

  I couldn’t wait any longer, so I blurted out, “What’s everyone saying about me, Gayle? It’s killing me. I'm probably on next month’s cover of People magazine.”

  She laughed lightly, reminding me of my mother’s laughter and the sound of delicate wind chimes. “It doesn’t matter, Sunny. They’re just a shark pool looking for the next victim.” She smiled sweetly and tenderly touched my arm before continuing on a more serious note. “I know you’re going through a tough time. I just want you to know I’m your friend. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll be happy to listen. You know, Rex and I love both of you.”

  I choked up. Real friends were rare these days. I told her about Chance’s affair with Paige and that he had moved out. I told her that I still loved Chance and missed him, but I simply couldn’t forgive him. We finished our meal and Gayle listened, giving me support without criticism.

  “Call me if you need anyt
hing, and don’t worry about the secretaries.” She smiled confidently. “They’ll find someone new to talk about soon. They always do.”

  I spent the afternoon working on Courtney’s temporary restraining order. The paper wouldn’t stop her boyfriend, but it gave the police authority to arrest him without a warrant if he came within two hundred yards of her.

  It turned out that she never needed the TRO. Travis had an almost supernatural way of cutting through red tape. He told me the next day that he had Reilly picked by the Feds outside of Las Vegas.

  And Silicone Woman? She hit the road in her baby-blue to avoid being subpoenaed to testify at Reilly’s hearing.

  I admit that a huge part of me envied her ability to keep her identity, and just drive away from her problems without looking back.

  CHAPTER 16

  Logan was a dangerously handsome man when he smiled. There were good times. In fact, there were some great times. When Logan was happy, everyone was happy, and life was good. I especially loved the times when he would come home, pick me up and swing me around calling me his “Sunny Girl.” This affectionate display reminded me of my dad and happier times. And in a strange way, I felt a familiar sense of safety when he was around. Men feared Logan, even as they had feared my father. But Logan was not Lefty.

  “I did it, Sunny Girl! Wahoo!” he sang out, radiating joy as he dismounted and lifted me in his arms, kissing me.

  About seven mounted riders pulled up behind him and slid into a precision line, looking like a row of Storm Troopers standing first at attention, then at ease. There was a festive charge in the air. Everyone was happy and looking at me expectantly.