Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  Pausing to kiss Frito on his little apple forehead, I opened the apartment door, a cheap, dented metal door that usually sticks. It popped open with a whoosh and I stepped out and down onto some ghastly—something that crackled, snapped, and crushed like a bag of bones. Hurling myself backward, I grabbed for the doorjamb, missed and landed on my butt with a cry loud enough to wake my neighbor. I sat there with my feet pointing at a dead thing. Frito yapped hysterically as the neighbor rushed over and helped pull me back up. Hot adrenalin surged through my racing heart.

  “Okay. Not to worry. I’m alright,” I said to calm both the neighbor and my dog. At my feet lay a dozen very dry, very dead, blood red roses wrapped in a shroud of black tissue paper and neatly tied with black wire ribbon. Nothing more.

  Time warped, slowing and stretching until I had no idea how long I stood looking at the corpse-bouquet in my hands. The world faded to shades of gray. The neighbor advised me to find a new boyfriend and returned home. I knew Logan had found me. Worse still, I knew his intentions. The message was clear.

  The hall was quiet, but the sound of banging rose up from below. I peered over the guardrail to see our maintenance man, Jorje Gonzales dumping trash into a bin at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Hey, Jorje! Jorje! Hey... Buenos dias!”

  Jorje smiled, his gold fillings flashing in the morning sun as he waved.

  “Buenos dias. Hola, Soleda!”

  “Did you see anyone on a motorcycle this morning?” He frowned, confused, so I tried Mexican, which is a homogenized blend of Spanish-English phonetics. “Mo-to-ci-cle-ta?” Okay, so I’m not bilingual. But you can’t live in California without picking up the important stuff, plus a few extras that aren’t on the menu.

  “No, gracias. Adios.”

  Gosh, doesn’t this guy speak Spanish? Frustrated and scared, I double-checked the locks on the door before leaving.

  Frito felt extra good when I hugged him after work. He has been my constant companion for most of my life and an endless supply of unconditional love. Frito lost his right eye in a fight with a cat as a puppy. I think that’s why Lefty brought him home. Lefty understood losing body parts. Now Frito has a cataract on his good eye, he’s deaf, and incontinent. Much to his disgust, I tie a maxi pad around his waist at night to prevent flying-out-of-bed with wet feet and trying to get back to sleep on a cold couch. Frito was my buddy through thick and thin.

  “Quit faking... you are not dying!”

  Frito dragged himself across the kitchen floor doing his dying dog act as I heated leftover chili beans for dinner. He rolled onto his back and stuck his legs stick straight into the air, looking like three-day-old road kill.

  “Yeah right, Frito. That’s how I feel after breathing your dog farts all night. No more chili for you.” Defeated, he rolled over and headed for his bowl of crunchies.

  Ring!

  “Must be a call-out,” I informed my little beggar as I picked up the phone.

  “Hello, this is Sunny. Hello?” Heavy breathing. “Hello?” Silence.

  Click!

  Every day I come in contact with dangerous men. Bust a major drug dealer, and he will usually take his punishment “like a man.” No surprise there. Men know there are consequences if caught committing a crime. But influence the outcome of a custody order that keeps Stupid away from his wife and his kids, and it becomes personal. I run the risk of being run over by a ticked-off wife-beater every time I cross the parking lot between the courthouse and my office. These men are very dangerous, but they are not in the same league with Logan.

  Logan is a killer. He wore the club TCB patch like a medal of honor and confessed to killing people over business. He also bragged his Filthy Few tattoo after blowing up the Mongols’ clubhouse in retaliation for Lefty’s murder. I knew the bombing had started a gang war that led to more deaths. I concluded that Logan must believe that I know too much.

  Allegra Pesci had a sad but steady look behind moist eyes. She was a dark, classic Italian beauty in her mid-thirties with full lips, thick chestnut hair hanging over her shoulders and large liquid brown eyes. She wore a print cotton dress and a matching pair of strappy Esmeraldas. Her voice never wavered, although she swallowed hard and spoke through dry, trembling lips and gripped the armrest on the office sofa when she announced, “He murdered John Taylor.”

  I read the signs of fear and nervousness but believed she was telling the truth.

  “I hear you, Allegra. We both know that Vincent is on the run. He’s made phone calls from...” I scanned the activity sheet inside of her file, “six states now. We’ve alerted law enforcement and we are going to catch him.” I spoke with confidence that belied an underlying uncertainty.

  Allegra chose tea over coffee and started to relax. Victims are seldom aware of the soft background music that permeates my office, but it helps to defuse the stress of asking them to relate and relive their worst memories. “So, tell me why you think Vincent killed John? John is still listed as a missing person.”

  Assessing victims for credibility is part of my work. There is truth in the old adage about eyes being windows to the soul, but there are other indicators as well. Body language, for example, speaks volumes. Allegra leaned into me without tipping the chair or fidgeting. No defensive posturing; crossing her arms or legs. Neither did she roll her eyes or stare at the ceiling when answering difficult questions. She was open and her gaze straightforward, just like her answers.

  “Vincent thought John and I were having an affair. I’m sure of it. But we weren’t. Anyhow, John was just helpful. You know; he jump-started my car once and helped me pick up and unload a new refrigerator. Man stuff.”

  Allegra choked up with gratitude as she recalled the kindness of her forty-something-year-old neighbor. John’s country home was visible from the far corner of her small orchard. Walking distance, for sure. “So I’d take him some cookies or some cherries from the orchard. Little things. I know Vinny killed him,” she said, clenching her fist. “Vincent always thought I was cheating on him. He’s a control freak. It’s the Italian in him.”

  There may have been a degree of truth to her “Italian” comment. No race is more violent than another, but some cultures are more tolerant of domestic violence, and still other cultures treat their wives with less consideration than their livestock.

  Vincent Pesci had jumped bail after throwing Allegra through their sliding glass door. She had not been sliced and diced, so the court reasoned that Vincent, being a homeowner and having held a job for almost six years at Discount Plywood, was not likely to go anywhere. They issued a Stay Away Order and a warned him that he would be arrested if he tried to contact Allegra in any way. Vincent was also ordered to surrender his guns to his father who lived in Marysville. Somehow the guns never made it to his dad's house and now Vinny was on the run with his weapons.

  The UPS man discovered John Taylor’s body some two weeks later. Taylor had been shot but the bullet casing was missing, and the living room, where the crime was committed, had been sanitized. This case was going to be a tough one.

  “Let me get Travis, our investigator, before we go any further,” I told her.

  Like most women, Allegra smiled at the mention of Travis’s name. Travis had done the follow-up investigation on the domestic violence when the case first came up from the sheriff’s office. Neither of us had been happy about Vincent making bail, but his father was a prominent businessman in Yuba County and more than able to put up a cash bond. Sadly, I suspected he might also have put up flight money for his wayward son. For all anyone knew, Vincent could be on his way to Sicily—or on his way to Allegra.

  There are several indicators to look for when doing a lethality assessment. The evaluation is a flow chart without any guarantees the perpetrator will go with the flow. He could skip some of the steps and head straight to murder. While I teach about lethality all the time as an Advocate, it didn’t hurt to do a review for my own protection. I pulled out two of the Stalking brochures I
had written for the district attorney office, one for Allegra and one for me. Flipping to the back page, I considered each question:

  Has your partner threatened to kill himself, you, the children, or family members?

  Sigh. “I wish he’d kill himself,” I thought aloud, before answering the question. “Yes.” He killed my father and our baby. And he’s almost killed me.

  Has he told you his plans for carrying out his intention? How he will kill you, where he will hide the body, or what he will tell the police?

  Okay, I knew the answer to this one. I had a client whose husband was a farmer with a plan to plow her body into the rice fields. Then there was a man who taught his little boy to point the remote control at Mommy and say “Bang! Bang!” Several months later, the father replaced the remote control with a loaded gun. Logan had threatened me with several variations of hiding my body in the woods and sinking it in a lake. He had yet to update me on his newest plan since the finding dead flowers.

  Does he have a weapon or the means to carry out the threat?

  A hard chuckle escaped. Logan had guns, knives, bombs, drugs, two hands, and teeth. I guess that’s another big “Yes.”

  Has he committed prior acts of violence?

  Let me see... numerous beatings, spousal rape, and at least three murders. “Yup!”

  Is he depressed?

  I rubbed my forehead knowing that Logan dwells in a “black hole” whenever he is not riding the up-side of the bipolar roller coaster.

  Is he using drugs or alcohol?

  Do bears poop in the woods? “Yes” to both. Heavily.

  Is he prone to rage?

  Is he ever any other way?

  Has he killed an animal or pet?

  My heart clenched in fear for Frito. He is my best friend.

  Have you left the relationship or threatened to leave?

  “Ouch!” I murmured to myself. This is so not-good.

  Are you being stalked?

  Long sigh... “I am so dead!”

  CHAPTER 18

  Some stains are almost impossible to remove: spaghetti sauce on your white shirt, dog pile jammed in the crevice of your shoe, cigarette stink from a smoker’s home, and a stalker from your life.

  After circling the apartment complex twice, I parked and headed upstairs feeling depressed and worried about which kind of weapon to buy. A Taser? Mace? An Uzi? Maybe one of Logan's surface-to-air-missiles he probably has squirreled away somewhere at the cabin. Not that I ever advise my victims to buy a gun. Typically, I suggest a small, indoor dog that isn't familiar with the abuser’s scent, a large can of pepper spray available at most sporting goods stores, and a video device can be useful for recording drive-bys—as long as you’re not standing in the road with your stalker is behind the wheel. I remind them of the utmost importance of saving “gift” items and recorded phone messages as evidence for court.

  Like most of my victims, I made the wrong choice to trash the dead flowers, acting on emotion instead of good sense. Too bad Frito knew Logan’s scent. Logan made no drive-bys, and his phone messages were always hang-ups. I was pretty sure I could shoot Logan with the gun Lefty had given me. I just needed to get up the nerve to return to the cabin to get it. But going back for the gun seemed riskier than living without it.

  “Frito? Baby, I’m home. Frito!” I called, kicking off my shoes. “Frito? Hey, buddy, wake up! Frito? Foooood!” Silence.

  Frito was either dead or gone. There was nobody in sight, so I searched the apartment. The familiar adrenaline rush returned in a burst of fear and fury before asking myself, How does a dog vanish from a second story apartment? The windows were still locked and the door had not been pried open. I headed for the manager’s apartment, then stopped short at the sound of a lawn mower.

  “Hola, Sunnee. Soleada.” Jorje’s golden smile gleamed. He was my favorite maintenance man and was looking up and waving. “Hey... I see your, uh... su novio... boyfriend. El montar. You know... una motocicleta.

  He had seen Logan! “Donde esta? Where is he?”

  Jorje paused to think. “Él es ido... he adios... bye-bye.”

  “What about Frito?”

  Jorje shrugged. “No sé.”

  “Follow me. Rapido... ándale... whatever! Come on.” I motioned crazily.

  Racing downstairs, heart flip-flopping in my chest, Jorje hot on my heels, we headed for the manager’s office. On a good day, the discussion that ensued might have been delightfully entertaining. Today, as I listened to Mussarat Hardeep, the manager’s wife, shouting and gesturing in her Punjabized English and Jorje responding in Spanish-English, I was not amused.

  “My apartment. Did you give the key to my apartment to anyone today?” I asked her.

  “What? Chiu needa key?” Mussarat’s face furrowed with concern. Her husband was away and she didn’t usually get involved with tenant issues.

  Jorje started making motorcycle noises. “Rrrrummm, rummm. Motocicleta.” He volunteered.

  “Big guy,” I said, throwing my hands in the air to indicate big. “Biker. Did you give him my key?”

  She smiled blandly. “Out, yes? Needa key, no?”

  “Frito. Did someone take Frito?” Tears welled up in my eyes.

  “Perro. Arf ! Arf!” Jorje started to pant like a dog. “Frito.”

  Mussarat’s eyes shifted back and forth between us suspiciously.

  “Thanks, Jorje. That was good.”

  Mussarat’s face visibly brightened in comprehension. “Ohhh.” She grinned. “To-day. No? Eh, nasi brudder. Yeah, yeah, leetle Free-to. Yes, gone. Dog-tor.” (Dog-tor? Doctor? Vet?) Mussarat looked pleased. “Back, yes?”

  “Back, no!” I started to cry.

  “Soleada... Sunnee, Jorje help,” he said, handing me a red grease rag caked with lawn clippings to blow my nose.

  “I’m calling the police,” I sobbed through the grass stuck to the snot on my face.

  “Dun call da po-lice I tell you! No tanks!” Mussarat was waving her hands in the air.

  “Policia? No es necesario!” Jorje took off at a lope. He’d probably misplaced his green card.

  Gestures seemed to be our primary form of communication. “He’s a killer,” I yelled at the frightened woman, forming my fist into a gun and thrusting it in her face.

  Mussarat exploded into a panic-stricken torrent of terrified Punjabi as she ran in circles, yelling “Po-lice” over, and over, and over.

  After the police had left my apartment, I called every vet and animal shelter in Butte and Yuba counties. My little friend was gone. I reported that an unknown man had taken my dog from my apartment. I hadn’t actually seen Logan, but they noted him as a person of interest in the report along with “No forced signs of entry,” and a recommendation that I “get a good night's sleep” and see a doctor if my anxiety persisted. “Perhaps some Xanax,” they offered.

  “Why did I hear about this from dispatch instead of you?” Chance looked hurt and confused after hearing about the Frito incident at work. “This wasn't a break-in, and the police report suggests possible harassment, not stalking. It doesn't even mention the dead flowers. Sunny, Logan is stalking you which is a major crime. You know how dangerous he is. You have got to make another report, babe.”

  Chance’s eyes were blue-hot and I thought could melt into them. I huffed and grunted as we moved the recliner I’d picked up at a yard sale upstairs. “It’s the right thing to do,” he said without breaking a sweat,” and your options don’t look good.”

  We had been dating for almost three months, ever since the motorcycle crash. Chance knew about Logan. Well, he was aware of some things about Logan. Other things were too painful to share, and I didn’t know if I could trust Chance with the whole truth. Deep down, I saw myself as nickel, and Chance worth a million dollars. That is how much I valued him and how little I respected myself. After all, I had a history that included drugs, sex, gang rape at Sturgis, plus all the illegal activity in Feather Falls.

  Then, there was
the baby and the secret knowledge that I could not get pregnant. Maybe there would be a “right time” to tell him everything one day. I worried if Chance knew who I really was, he would not—could not—love me anymore.

  Aren’t I property of Hells Angels? I asked myself. Can I ever be anything else?

  Chance reached over from the new chair with a reassuring touch. It was evening. Dinner was finished, the lights turned low, and a soft breeze drifted in through the open window carrying the sound of kids playing little league ball over at the park.

  “If you won’t report the stalking, you can at least talk with your DA.

  “I know, Chance. You’re right. It’s just... well, I’m afraid of Logan.”

  An unwanted avalanche of painful memories slid through my mind: Logan’s assaults, the black eyes, punches, hair-pulling, the rapes. The rapes were the worst. I shuddered, wondering again where Frito could be and started to cry.

  Chance got up and sat next to me on the love seat. Although we were still getting to know each other, he made me feel safe when he wrapped his arms around me.

  “I love you, Sunny. You’re smart to be scared. That’s not a bad thing. And you’re not defenseless. You’re a strong woman. In fact, you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. I’ll help you.” He continued. I'll write the report myself. I'll have Logan picked up and charged with stalking and a dozen other offenses for the DA to bargain with. They'll send him back to prison for a long time. However you want to do this, I’ll be there for you. And you know, I would die protecting you.”