Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

Trying not to be obvious, I waited until the last half hour of work to visit Andrew. While officially stating for the record that I never saw the man before, I blanched when looking the sketch of the Mongol. I was certain he was the same man who had returned with Logan from Laughlin and later helped unload guns at the cabin—and I was just as certain that my reaction to the sketch was reported to the powers that be.

  In California, it is common to have zero rainfall from May to October, so it was extremely unusual when the forecast announced rain in August. The heat had been rising from the valley floor and thunderheads piled up casting shadows across the mountains for the past week. I thought it appropriate that it should rain today. Maybe it was angels in heaven weeping for a life taken out of season. The clouds drooped, dragging like ragged curtains across the skyline, ripped and torn like the shattered lives that huddled beneath the tear-stained canopies set up by the funeral planners.

  I stood in the rain in my black slacks and pumps, sporting a small purple ribbon pinned to the collar of my official district attorney office dress shirt. The sky was black, my umbrella black, and my mood black. Travis was in Oakland and in spite of the small crowd, I felt terribly alone. I watched Carrie’s children as her daughter sobbed and clung tightly to her steely, dry-eyed brother. Thunder rumbled and boomed, echoing over the mountains. The storm felt as oppressive as a shroud draped over the stark graveside.

  Gina, from Children’s Services was there, along with the kids’ teachers and a couple of their friends from school. No family members had bothered to attend except for the alcoholic grandmother—reeking of cheap bourbon—that arrived to take custody of the children. The rest of Carrie's family “always knew this would happen,” and were not paying their respects because they “had told her so.” James had probably alienated his family long ago.

  Gina and I gazed at each other across the gravesite for a few sad moments. We were both probably contemplating possible outcomes for the children. Their father had murdered their mother. Such a violent act was bound to impact their young minds. Would the daughter die one day of a drug overdose or rot away in a cloud of alcohol? Would the son grow up and beat his girlfriend because, after all, isn’t that what men do to keep control? My tears mingled with the falling rain.

  An arm slipped around me lending strength. I looked up and into a pair of deep blue sympathetic eyes. Chance was here for me. My rescuer. My husband. He felt so good that I dropped my guard and fully embraced the sanctuary of his arms. It didn't even matter that Paige was on the other side of the service, sitting under a canopy that was intended to keep the family of the deceased dry, as she angled to position herself in front of the local TV camera. It made sense. The only reason Paige would go out in the rain for a stranger’s funeral had to be in hope of making the evening news.

  I completely missed the storm clouds over Paige’s head and the thunder in her eyes as she glared at the two of us holding on to each other, but the news camera caught it all. “Advocate’s Anger Burns over Lack of Victim Protection” subtitled Paige’s picture in the morning paper. She was thrilled. Too bad it wasn’t a tabloid; “Jilted Lover Dumped for Real Deal.” The thrill would have been mine.

  “Go for a ride?” Travis caught me as I stepped out of the lobby into the atrium. He was back from whatever business had taken him to the Bay Area. He looked as inviting as his offer, dressed in a brown shirt and Jerry Garcia tie that was splashed in burnt orange and forest green, topped with brown sport coat. His green eyes twinkled his tone was deep and suggestive.

  “I’ll go,” Paige volunteered, materializing from nowhere, her voice eager and breasts heaving like a pair of matched race horses about to explode from the starting gate.

  “Yeah, she’ll ride you,” I mumbled. “I told Gayle I’d walk these papers over to Amanda. She’s waiting at the courthouse. I think our victim’s children are in Lebanon.”

  “Paige will be happy to take them for you. Won’t you Paige?” Travis stunned her with a wink and threw her an award-winning grin. “You’re a sweetheart.” That did the trick. He’d called her “sweetheart.” Ugh!

  She stood there, possibly speechless for the first time in her life. She gave Travis one of those knowing looks that reminded me of looks Chance and I sometimes exchanged, and then she whisked the papers away.

  “She’ll ride me?” Travis shot me an incredulous look as we headed up into the hills.

  “Sweetheart?” I fired back. “You called her sweetheart!”

  Travis smiled, dimpling, “Charm will get you everywhere.”

  “Dork.”

  “What?”

  “I called you a dork,” I said, with a flirty look. Travis couldn’t stop laughing. “And where are we going, anyhow?”

  “It’s a surprise.” He had a devilish look in his eyes.

  Swell. I found myself distracted by his sharp outfit and the way his biceps pressed against the fabric. Travis was just downright sexy. Maybe it was the blend of smooth skin and five o’clock shadow. Maybe it was his perfectly groomed messy hairstyle, or his firm athletic body, or the muscle that worked along his jaw when he was tense—not that it mattered—but it didn’t help that my hormones were surging at high tide. When I finally tore my eyes from him and looked around, I was surprised. “Why are we going to Feather Falls?” He just smiled.

  “Hello? What’s in Feather Falls?”

  “I need a tour guide and thought you might help me out.”

  “What are we touring?” Dark clouds deepened.

  “When’s the last time you saw Logan?” Travis asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “What?” I wasn’t prepared for that one.

  “When’s the last time you saw Christy and the kids?” I countered. Pretty obvious he wasn’t prepared either.

  Travis stared in honest amazement. “What does Christy have to do with anything?”

  “That’s what I am asking you!” The question felt intrusive, but they say that the best defense is throwing dirt in the other person’s eyes.

  Travis drove a little farther until we reached the scenic viewpoint overlooking Lake Oroville. Pulling the car off the road, he killed the engine, turned in the seat and eyed me carefully. “I saw Christy and the kids on Christmas, just like I do every year.”

  Uh-oh, sorry I asked. “Strike that,” I said speaking legalese, “your business. But why do you want to know about Logan?” I wasn’t about to give any ground. He held me in his gaze and seemed to be calculating how much I could take.

  “I think he’s up there,” said Travis.

  That did it. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing getting into my life? I'm out of here!” I groped for the door handle and my purse. Travis moved lightning-fast, gently but firmly holding onto me.

  “Sunny! Sunny!” Travis held one arm, and I lashed out with the other.

  “Are you trying to get me killed? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  Shaking. Furious. I threatened, “You're taking me back to the office or I am walking back!”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Travis remained calm.

  I struggled for the latch and he pulled me back again, turning me in the seat and sliding forward. He kissed me hard on the lips, his mouth enveloping mine, warm and incredibly sensuous. WoW. Talk about a diversion! I stopped shaking but was still upset, confused, and more than a little dizzy from the kiss. I had gone from steaming hot to warm and fuzzy in seconds.

  “Show me the cabin, Sunny.” Travis’s voice softened without sacrificing a sense of urgency.

  “You’re stupid, Travis. You think you know everything, but you’re going to get me killed. Logan is Sergeant at Arms for Hells Angels—TCB! Maybe you don’t know their motto: “Three can keep a secret—if two are dead.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His breath was warm and moist on my face.

  “What?” I pushed him away. “You think Logan hasn’t killed before? You think I am some stupid, gullible victim? You think I don�
�t know that when Logan is ready to kill me, it's a done deal? I am already dead!” Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. “You’re just another liar! You can’t protect me. Chance can’t protect me. Hell, I couldn’t even protect my dog from him!”

  “Sunny...” He cradled my face in strong hands, whispering my name repeatedly, I breathed his strong masculine essence until my tears were spent and I leaned against him, drained and vulnerable.

  How does he do it? I wondered. Am I under some kind of spell? Nothing in the world could have forced me to take him to the property in Feather Falls, but there I was, doing it nonetheless. We drove in absolute silence until I pointed to the dirt road above the cabin.

  Dread and acceptance had crept into my soul. I felt as I once had–right before a beating. It was a learned response. I had survived through submission and acceptance of whatever would happen next. Somehow, Travis's kiss had brought back the familiar adrenaline rush of sex, violence, and resignation.

  “Down there.” I pointed dully. “That’s the road.”

  Travis slowed as we drove past, still holding onto my hand, then turned the car around a half mile later and drove back the way we came. The silence was suffocating. A half hour later, Travis pulled off the road above the lake, stopping at the same place we had parked earlier.

  “Babe.” Travis’s arm stretched across the back of the seat. “I can only imagine how hard this was for you. Thank you.” He reached over and kissed me on the cheek; softly, gently. Tenderly. Except this time he didn’t light a fire, and I didn’t resist. I was confused and angry.

  Victims of repeated sexual abuse learn that to survive by not resisting. It is a survival mechanism of the powerless, like a kitten going limp in the hands of a toddler. My professional training has empowered me. I know why I react the way I do, but change comes much slower than knowledge.

  We didn't speak on the drive back to Oroville. Travis never let go of my hand, and I didn't shake him off.

  “I still don’t get it,” I said as we pulled back onto County Center Drive. “I want to know—and don't jerk me around—how did you know that Logan was stalking me?”

  Travis pulled in and parked. Turned off the ignition, he turned toward me once more. Calm and self-assured, he looked me in the eye and said, “Chance told me.”

  CHAPTER 22

  She was possibly the most fearsome female I had ever seen. Not exactly someone you’d want for a cellmate. In fact, she was about to become an inmate’s worst nightmare. About six foot three with a Neanderthal forehead jutting out over dark, beady, recessed eyes; she was built like a battleship and just as daunting. Her butch hairdo exposed painful pink patches where she had ripped out fistfuls of her own hair. No wonder the cops had driven past her three times before realizing she was a she and not a he. It was not my first same-sex domestic violence case and would certainly not be the last.

  According to the police report, Neanderthal Woman had caught her young partner in bed with a man. She had broken Lover Boy’s arm before chasing her girlfriend down the street with a belt in her hand. The belt remains a mystery, but it did catch the attention of the police as they hunted for a suspect.

  There has been a substantial increase in same-sex violence reports nationwide. Perhaps this is because of an increase in homosexual behavior or perhaps it is because people everywhere understand that inter-personal violence is both illegal and unacceptable in any relationship.

  Arriving early to court, I located the victim and her parents. Taking a seat behind them, I quietly introduced myself as we waited for proceedings to begin.

  My job had desensitized me to many things that would shock the average person, but I found myself increasingly disturbed by little things that other people would consider inconsequential.

  My bored victim, young Teresa Hurley, doodled in her notebook. She must have been at it for some time because the page was completely covered in an old-English script whose intricate swirls proclaimed multiple variations of “Gay Pride.”

  No, that didn’t shock me. Teresa’s abusive partner, fearsome as she was, did not shock me.

  It was her little white-haired adoring mother and father that left me stunned. Sitting close, embracing each other as they observed their daughter’s artwork, they wore glowing expressions one would normally associate with watching your little girl graduate from Harvard with honors or watching your son score the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. They were so puffed up that I feared they might explode into a song and dance routine, whirling around the courthouse or leaping down hallowed halls singing “The hills are alive . . .” Why Teresa’s parents should be so proud of her for getting naked and having sex with other women was perplexing.

  But then, I have always been mystified by people who need to “explore” their sexuality. It seems like a no-brainer. The only exploration necessary is standing in front of a mirror and dropping your pants. If it’s an innie you’re a girl; if it’s an outtie, you’re a guy. Not that complicated, unless one suffers from a hormone imbalance. It seemed no more worthy of parades or special laws than any other treatable disorder.

  That being said, I did not have a problem assisting Teresa as a crime victim. She was 100% entitled to and deserving of my best efforts, and I made sure that she got them.

  The sun was hot and the day was drawing to a close. The boat rocked gently to the rhythm of the current, stirred by the late afternoon breeze. We had spent the day fishing and making small talk about everything but the elephant in the boat. We talked about the war in Afghanistan, but not the war between us. We talked about the dogs, but not the issues that dogged us. We talked about Chance trying to get Mark to rename his new houseboat Spanky instead of The Devil's Playground.

  I didn't like the Devil name either, but couldn't help thinking Chance was probably jealous that he no longer had the coolest boat among his coworkers. Mark’s new toy looked like a celebrity rec-center with plenty of glitz and bling in the bargain. Mark had transitioned from being a mere fisherman with an aluminum fishing boat to VIP status. Guessing he probably mortgaged his home and his soul to finance the ultimate party barge. That's big on the “BAR” part of “barge.” I suspect poor Mark was trying to dazzle Paige in hopes of winning back her black heart.

  “What's the deal with that anyway? Why are you and Mark always calling each other and that Spanky guy, gay? What kind of name is Spanky, anyhow?” I asked.

  Chance shot me an incredulous look. “Because he is. Spanky’s real name is Spencer, but he has more swish than my ex.”

  Okay, it’s true; Spencer does wear tight pants, a diamond stud in his right ear, and probably gets collagen shots in his lips. I am guessing he weighs about a hundred pounds with his Nomex on and probably wouldn't last the night in prison without becoming someone's new girlfriend. Nevertheless, Spence is a firefighter. Okay, he is a firefighter whose father has rank and used it to get his wimpy son a rescue job.

  I decided I’d had enough of the subject and enough dancing around sensitive issues. Since Chance had opened the can of worms, I decided to fish in deep waters.

  “Didn’t your ex... Megan... run off with your sister?”

  Chance cut the engine and I passed out food I’d packed in the cooler. Shadows along the canyon walls deepened, along with the look on Chance’s face.

  The affair between Chance's ex and his sister had been a nightmare for him. I later learned that it was a taboo topic. I always thought Chance should come out of the closet and talk about it.

  Sex is a powerful addiction. It is the least treatable of all criminal offenses. I believed that God can love gay people and still hate sexual sin. . . all sin, for that matter. God would not make someone gay and then punish them for it. I figure homosexuality is either a hormone imbalance or social disorder, and both are treatable. But like my CODA program, recovery starts with admitting you have a problem that you cannot control, then choosing to treat it.

  Chance barely acknowledged the relationship between his wife and sister. I
felt sorry he had to go through that, and even now I took no pleasure watching him suffer.

  Chance grimaced, pressing his lips together. “I wish I had met you back then... back when we were young,” he said wistfully. His tanned face showed lines around his eyes I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Hey! I’m not old!” I protested. “Besides, you can bet Megan wouldn’t have liked the idea of Golden Boy running around with Heidi the Goat Girl from the mountains.”

  A brief chuckle escaped him in spite of his apparent sadness.

  Chance is still a golden boy I thought, watching the wind run its fingers through his blond hair and caress his tanned face that was dimpled into a tight smile.

  “It’s not just that we might have been happy, you know. It’s just...” Chance paused, searching for the right words. “I think you could have saved me.”

  “Saved you? Saved you from what? The most beautiful girl in the state? The girl all the guys wanted... and you got?”

  I pulled my sweatshirt higher on my neck and rolled down the sleeves against the cooling evening air. Distracted by the sound of flapping, we turned to gaze as a pair of ducks soared low across the shimmering water, landing a short distance from the boat.

  Chance sighed and dropped his gaze as he continued. “Correction. The woman every man wanted and my sister got.” Pain curtained across his face. “You have no idea how humiliating it was.” Placing his thumb to his temple, he set his fingers softly rubbing along his brow. “It was too much to handle. There were times I thought about suicide,” he confessed. “I had a plan and I had the means. Guys I’d gone to school with—guys I thought were my friends—would make jokes about my sister being better in bed with my wife than I was, calling me gay. Me, instead of Megan and Crystal. They called me gay.”

  Observing Chance, I had a vision of a magnificent animal marred by a bullet that had wounded, but missed the kill shot. A survivor; grand, noble, and terribly scarred.