by Dawn Mattox
“How come I am the one in counseling every week? I haven't done anything wrong. I hate this. Chance is the one who needs counseling.”
Pastor Mac studied me for a moment. “What makes you think he isn't in counseling?”
“Is he?”
He hit me back with legalese. “You know I am bound by confidentiality and cannot confirm or deny.”
I know I am not perfect. I was in a whiny mood, and it was that time of the month. I had a half gallon of Rocky Road ice cream at home, and I was missing another episode of Law and Order.
Pastor rocked back on his heels and pursed his mouth as he considered. “Sunny...” He let my name hang there for a moment. “The question isn't about Chance, it's about you. Why are you here?”
Completely caught off guard, my mind cast about wildly for something profound and came up empty, forcing me to resort to the truth.
“Guilt.” Then added as an afterthought, “I'm here because... because... I don't know why I am here.”
“I’ve got time,” Pastor said. “Think about your answer.”
I swallowed my pride, my guilt, and my lust for Rocky Road in one big lump before dropping my defenses. “I want to hear someone—anyone—say that Chance wrecked our marriage. He is the bad guy. And nobody will.”
“Okay,” said Mac in all sincerity, “Chance is a bad guy, and your separation is his fault. You didn't deserve this. And I mean it. Feel any better?”
I didn't. Not even a little.
Mac continued. “Are you looking for validation or vindication?” The misery on my face must have been apparent as Mac placed a hand on my shoulder.
“We are all messed up, Sunny. I am a bad guy and you are a bad guy. The book of Romans says that none of us is perfect—no, not one. Chance made a mistake. A big one. A serious one. And I was hoping you came here tonight because you don't want to make one too. It's all about choices. We all have problems. It's how we deal with them that sets us apart from one another.”
Drained, I crawled into bed with my faithful little dog. I like laying in bed and thinking. Sometimes God speaks to me in the stillness of the night. It is probably the only time he can get my full attention. Snuggling deep between crisp cotton sheets, I gazed out the window as the first stars made their appearance, reflected on my day and wondered what to wear to work tomorrow.
Once or twice a year, I break down and shovel clothes out of my closet. I meant—clean the closet. It is a tedious job that I put off as long as possible. It requires most of the day to try on, sort out, and haul away stuff that is too tight, too stained, or no longer the trend.
Kissme was trying to dig a hole in the blanket when I thought I heard the Lord speaking to my spirit. It had been a long time since we shared a close encounter of the best kind, so I paid close attention.
It seemed that God was telling me to clean out my prayer closet, which was in a similar condition as the clothes closet. In my spirit, I saw rituals and rules as being too tight for everyday wear, and my behavior as either stained or out-dated. God wanted me to separate the things of value from the junk.
“What do I do with my junk, Lord? Throw it in the trash?”
God said, You've tried that on your own. How's it working for you?
“What, then? There's so much stuff I need a spotlight and a shovel just to find two shoes that match. I don't know what to do with all my emotional baggage.”
God said, Give it to me.
“Why would you want my trash?”
God considered. I call it, Mercy.
“Are you really going to do my dirty work for me, Lord?”
God smiled. That's called Justification.
“But if I throw everything out, I'll have nothing. What will I wear?”
God laughed. If you let me clean your closet, I'll give you unlimited access to my credit card.
“No limits? Why? Why would You—Lord of all Creation—do that for me? I am far from being a saint. Look at my scorecard. We both know I don't deserve your generosity.”
God kissed me on the forehead. It's called Grace, Sunny. Now rest. I'll see you in the morning.
CHAPTER 27
Farmers in the valley had been harvesting for months. Fruit stands dot Highways 70 and 99 with tempting signs for fresh peaches, apricots, melons, and tomatoes. Fall always ushers in hay mowing in the valley and pot picking in the hills. Thousands of pounds of medical marijuana flow from these hills like gold, and many of the gardens are managed by illegal Mexicans who can't speak a word of English, but know how to plant, cultivate, and defend their lucrative crops.
“Hello. Good morning.” Chance called on the house phone just as I finished my morning makeup ritual that I call enhanced natural.
“How can I help you?” I asked.
He paused. “I’m not a phone solicitor. I thought you’d like to know that Logan is still off the radar. We... ah... Travis and I, are still looking. Please be careful.”
I skipped over the point. “It figures that Travis would update you first. Just-like-yesterday...” I rolled out the words.
Chance cleared his throat “Actually, it was Shane who told me that Ashley had seen Logan at your house.”
“And you didn’t think to call me?” I banged my head against the phone with a whump!
“Sunny? You okay?” I imagined his finger hovering above 911 on speed dial.
“I'm late for work. And I have a headache. Thank you for the update. ”
I dressed in my last clean pair of tight jeans. Okay, they weren't all that tight when I bought them. They were probably made in China where the population is generally size small and smaller. Or maybe I had turned the heat in the dryer too high. Anyway, I stuffed myself into a great pair of blue jeans and topped them off with a white dress shirt, tied my hair neatly back with a white elastic band dotted with pretty pearly things and slipped on a new pair of Nike running shoes—just in case. You never know when you might need to run, especially in light of today's destination: Helltown.
Helltown was where Maria had reportedly been held in a pit for a nearly a week while her boyfriend, Ramiro, shoveled dirt onto her head several times a day. When she finally escaped, she chose to avoid the police and get help instead from Migrant Farmworker Services in Gridley.
Maria had good reasons for not going to the police. First, she was an illegal alien and feared deportation, and secondly, she’d left her seven-year-old daughter, Paloma, behind with bad-guy Ramiro. She could only imagine what her psychotic boyfriend might do to her daughter if she jeopardized their marijuana operation by calling the police.
The story she told my colleague was that Ramiro had been drinking one night and caught one of his dope-growing partners groping Maria in the kitchen. Hurling accusations at her, Ramiro had used Maria for a punching bag, then he dragged her through the woods to an old hydraulic mining pit, shoved her in, and repeatedly threatened to bury her alive. Admittedly, he’d tossed down food and bottled water twice a day along with shovelfuls of dirt, but he ignored her pleas to be let out.
Being resourceful, the youthful and agile Maria had used some sharp pieces of quartz to dig at a few tree roots that poked through the walls of the pit, creating steps and handholds sufficient to pull herself up and crawl out. She left her daughter at the house for fear that Ramiro might catch her, and reluctantly made her way down a moonlit dirt road and out to the highway where a horny trucker Jake-braked his way to disappointment. Not unsympathetic, the trucker gave Maria a ride to Gridley and dropped her off at the Migrant Farm Workers Association. There he gave her a twenty hoping for a little appreciation in return, but got nothing more than a grateful, “Muchas gracias!”
A social worker named John Palos arrived at work and asked Maria if she needed assistance. Maria’s story revealed multiple crimes, so John had called out of safety concerns for Maria and her daughter. About an hour after his initial call, he called me again, this time advising me that Maria had walked away from MFW around ten o'clock. It wasn’t har
d to figure out that she was headed back to Helltown for her daughter.
Technically, I should have forwarded the information to the sheriff's office, but I was avoiding Chance both at home and on the job, ever since he’d opened the doors for me to have a relationship with Travis. Anyhow, I figured a bilingual advocate from the women's shelter could help Maria file a police report later.
The district attorney would not have approved this trip. My plan was to head for the hills without asking permission. Alone. But God had other plans.
I succeeded in dodging a hundred employees, but I couldn’t avoid Travis. When I told him my plans, he insisted on going along to “cover me.” What he wanted to cover was most likely my rear—to keep it from getting shot off. There had been recent incidents where “coyotes”—human smugglers who move illegals over the border from Mexico—would hold the undocumented person’s family hostage in trade for their work on a pot plantation. Travis was playing it safe.
Travis knew I owned a gun, but shooting a target and killing a person requires distinctly different mindsets. I am a fair shot, but neither of us was really sure I could kill a person; unless the person’s name starts with L-O-G and ends with A-N. No matter, I chose to leave my gun at work. I didn’t want to be frisked by Ramiro and found packing. I just wanted to pick up Maria, grab her daughter, and get the heck to Casa Segura, a Spanish-speaking shelter in Glenn County.
Guns are a part of living in the mountains, and most mountain people own them. But generally speaking, the farther out the dwelling, the farther out the gun owner’s psyche. Between radical gun-toting survivalist-type folks living in the backwoods and the illegal Mexican gangs that have invaded the woods with pot plantations and meth labs, the tranquil Sierra Nevada Mountains can be a precarious place to navigate in certain places and at certain times of the year. Maria was on her way to one such location.
My plan was to play the gender card and pass myself off as a harmless social worker. Travis saw it differently. I tried giving him the slip.
The key was in the ignition and my seat belt buckled when a white 4x4 SUV sped up behind me and braked, blocking my exit. The tinted window rolled down to reveal a grinning tousle-haired gum-chewing Travis peering from behind a pair of Oakley's. “Thought we’d take the Big Boy since the helicopter is booked.”
I wasn't sure if he was kidding about the helicopter. A little reluctantly, I beeped my car shut and climbed into the 4x4, sliding across the smooth leather seat with paperwork in one hand and my shoulder bag in the other.
“You fly helicopters?” I asked.
“Only when I need to.”
His reply was a total turn on.
It was another bright California-perfect summer day that invited daydreams about flying away with Travis as we left the county complex and headed up toward the foothill communities of Paradise and Magalia.
Turning off the ridge from Skyway, we left the pavement and began our slow descent into Butte Creek Canyon. The trek led us down twisting and treacherous roads with names like Humbug, Nimshew, Centerville and Boneyard Flat. At last, we approached Helltown. Established in the 1850s, Helltown was one of the earliest mining camps in the area and once had a population of about 2,000 people. Nowadays the place is a health risk for census takers, Jehovah Witnesses, and strangers.
Helltown has never been known for its warmth and hospitality. It is known more for taking pot-shots at firefighters, setting tripwires and booby traps around pot crops, and greeting people at gunpoint. Legend says the town was named by miners one morning after a wild night of drinking and gambling, when they realized they’d been lighting their smokes, striking matches off kegs of gunpowder. I find the story easy to believe.
“Helltown isn’t even a community,” I explained to Travis as we bounced along. “It’s more like a... a location.” He nodded, keeping a vigilant eye on the road.
Clouds of dust rolled up from behind, occasionally overtaking us as we slowed for potholes that looked deep enough to eat us for lunch and use the SUV for a toothpick. We finally pulled off to the side of the road, and I watched with apprehension as Travis checked his weapons with calm assurance.
“What?” Travis raised his eyebrows. “You don’t expect trouble? You think they’ll invite us in for tacos?”
“I was thinking... that I’ve brought trouble with me and you are going to wreck my lunch plans for tacos in Glenn County.”
Travis smiled slyly and I had a hot flash, which is pretty amazing since menopause was still light years away.
The used-to-be-cabin-now-shack was set back off the road, and the standard Butte County welcoming committee of three large, nasty looking pit bulls greeted us as we came to a stop. Travis pulled a can of mace from the left door panel and held it low and out of sight while keeping his right gun-hand poised for action.
“Any other surprises?” I asked.
“Count on it,” Travis said with a grin that triggered another a hot flash that landed inches below the belt and miles below my brain, “but this one is standard issue.” He passed a second can of mace over to me, and I tucked it in the empty holster pocket of my shoulder bag. I had not planned for confrontation.
Travis honked the horn. After all, we weren’t ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement—and we weren't here to make an arrest. If the growers ran and hid, it would be okay with me. I wasn’t surprised that no one came to greet us except the dogs. Travis rolled down the window and the first pit, over sixty pounds of liver-colored red-eyed white-fanged rage lunged forward, sticking face through the open window and catching a blast of mace into his open jaws. Yelping and snarling, he fell back and, since no one else was available, ran around trying to bite himself. Travis kicked the door open, knocking the dog in the head and stepping out, quickly spraying him again. The two remaining dogs turned tail and chased after Bruiser who now led the way, foaming and yelping into the woods.
We weren’t exactly off to the best start, but since no one was there to control their dogs, it worked.
No one was in sight, but I sensed the presence of camo-clad gang-bangers behind every tree. Travis took the safety off his gun and told me to stay alert as we approached the shabby looking cabin.
So much for pretending to be a social worker. I knocked on the rickety wooden door; the hollow echo conjured images of a lid being nailed on a coffin.
“Maria? Ma-ri-a!” I called. I thought I heard something. Just as I reached for the door, a white pit bull returned, running full tilt around the corner as it barreled down on Travis.
Bam! A single shot and the dog dropped in its tracks. I stared in horror, paralyzed with fright as blood and gore splashed across the walkway. More frightening still—was the silent chill of cold metal pressing into the back of my head and the choke-hold that took me from behind. Travis swung back around, responding to the threat that he could not have seen, but must have sensed.
“Hola amigos. Drop it!” Travis dropped his gun. “And you.” He tightened his chokehold and I dropped my bag.
“What the fuck you want?” the menacing voice wheezed into my ear.
The arm around my neck was huge and bare with a tattooed sleeve. The breath on the side of my face heavier than a six-pack of beer and his body odor rivaled Neil Road landfill. The gun felt like death jammed against my head.
My entire life didn’t exactly flash before me, but thoughts of Chance did. Unexpected thoughts; like remembering how proud I’d felt the night he received an award for saving the life of a little girl. She had been buried alive for three days under a building that collapsed during an earthquake in Haiti. Mercy had pointed the way and Chance had risked his life going beneath the rubble to save her. With an overwhelming pang, I wished Chance were here to rescue me.
“I’m a social worker, here to give Maria and Paloma a ride to the woman’s shelter,” I lied. “Are you Ramiro?”
He laughed with a deep guttural cough and tightened his chokehold. “You bring a cop with you to get the bitch and her kid?”
/>
“He’s with CPS—Child Protective Services. They wouldn’t let me drive out here alone.”
The man gestured with his gun pointed at Travis. “Now the other one, Señior CPS,” the man spoke with a thick accent. The world was fading into shades of gray as I gasped, sucking in my last breath. My knees buckled and I dropped as low as the chokehold would allow.
Travis stood with one hand in the air, using only his fingertips, he carefully pulled a second gun from his waistband at the small of his back and tossed it toward the first gun already on the ground. The instant the guns clanked together, I summoned every drop of caffeine in my body and jumped back on both of Señior Bad Man's feet and straightened my legs, jack-knifing us backward onto his butt. The heat of the gun blast scorched my ear with a deafening shockwave, reverberating through my head and burning the fold of my ear as the shot went wild. I rolled away, grabbing for the mace from my bag as Travis raced for the guns.
A giant paw reached out and grabbed my free wrist. I groped for the mace with the other. Ramiro rolled, pulling me on top of him, once again using me as a shield. With Ramiro's focus on Travis's gun and my bag just out of reach, I resorted to tried-and-true Plan C: jerking my knee into Ramiro's crotch with a force that turned his brown face blue, then white. His groan bugled through the hills like a castrated bull, only releasing his grip when Travis pointed a gun at his head.
Travis continued to subdue him. That is to say; Travis watched with a pained expression as my assailant writhed and rolled in the dirt, cursing in Spanish and moaning in agony as he clutched his now-wet man-parts. I crawled toward the second gun, got it and rose, stumbled to the house and slipped inside.
Muffled sounds led me to Maria who had apparently wriggled her way off of a dirty, ragged sofa and onto the living room floor. Her wrists were bound with duct tape and a second strip of tape was wrapped around her head and over her bruised and battered mouth.
Hurrying to her side, I froze, terrified, heart crashing wildly when the door slammed.