by Dawn Mattox
I studied him for a time. “What aren't you telling me, Chance?”
His features tightened as he paused to gauge my reaction. “Logan survived.”
Abuse victim, Sarah, arrived right on time. Only she didn't see herself as a victim. Like half of the population I work with, she was there to “drop the charges,” so he could “get the help he needs.”
If abusers had half of their victim’s compassion, I’d be out of a job.
Settling on the sofa and accepting a cup of tea, she began.
“My faith means everything to me,” Sarah murmured, dabbing at her tears with a tissue. “I used to be a nun, you know.”
“No,” I said, genuinely surprised. “I didn't know that. How long ago was that?”
“Oh...” Sarah ran her fingers thoughtfully through graying hair, pulling wisps back into her attractive, upswept hairdo as she pondered. “I think about twenty-five years ago. Maybe closer to thirty. Time flies.”
Sarah was lovely. She had aged gracefully. Or maybe she had simply aged in a state of grace.
“I always knew when it was coming,” she said thoughtfully, referring to her husband, Preacher Pollard’s violence. “Parker would turn up the TV and pull down the blinds. He'd be rambling about religion and then get into this... state. Like he was there, but he wasn't there.” She twisted her Kleenex, knotting and unknotting it nervously as she considered her words. “Oh, ma’am, I don't know what religion you are and whether you believe in such things, but it's like... he gets possessed. He just isn't himself.”
“And then?”
She studied the tissue in her hand. “Then he would take me into the garage and bend me over the workbench.” Her face registered pain and shame.
“And?”
“Parker would quote scripture, then take his rod of chastisement and whip me. He says it's for my own good... that it makes me a better wife.”
“A rod?”
“The top of an old fishing pole. He says it's his responsibility as head of our home to smite me and that it's right for me to submit to his authority.” Sarah's delicate shoulders trembled with controlled grief. “I thought he loved me. And, well, he wasn't always like that. He is a pastor, you know.”
“I read that.”
“Yes. Well, Parker’s first wife and their young child died in a car accident. They were arguing while he was driving home from the city. His little girl died right away, but his wife was... horribly disfigured. She died a couple of years later. He was so angry. So lost.” Her sweet face glowed. “I tried to help him. I thought my faith was strong enough for both of us.”
Life isn't so bad, I thought, as I lay next to Logan, moonlight flooding through the sliding doors of the upstairs bedroom, bathing our bed in watery light. I studied Logan’s features, so sharp and stern when he was angry, yet soft and boyish when asleep. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, lay feathered across his pillow and I thought how desirable he was. I smiled, remembering the day he had undressed me in the lake, taking off my swimsuit and making love under a fiery sun in a warm bed of water.
I thought I loved him.
When I was still young, I thought he was “misunderstood.” Poor Logan, I would tell myself. He's had such a hard life...
God knows I tried for years to understand Logan. I knew he had survived a rough childhood and grown up in a violent and abusive home. His real dad was a biker, a one-percent outlaw who had abandoned both him and his mom early on. His stepfather rode with a gang, too. The stepfather loved motorcycles and crack cocaine. His mother loved the stepfather’s lifestyle, and the expensive gifts he would buy her during the Honeymoon Phase of their “Cycle of Violence.”
The cycle starts with “tension,” where the batterer internalizes a pressure cooker of mounting anger and frustration. Next, comes the “release-of-tension;” an episode of explosive, violent abuse. And finally, “reconciliation,” also called the “Honeymoon Phase,” complete with contrition, romance, and gifts. Woman's dreams come true during the honeymoon phase. The man is sweet, the gifts extravagant, and the sex is hot. Round and round the cycle spins, except—with the passing of time—the violence increases in frequency and severity, and eventually, the honeymoon phase, “phases” out. Instead of “Honey, I am so sorry,” he says, “The bitch asked for it.”
Logan's first trip to the juvenile hall was the price he paid for smashing his stepfather's motorcycle with a baseball bat. His first trip to prison was when he killed the same stepfather using the same bat three months after his release. Logan had fallen into the thirteen percent of boys between the ages of thirteen and eighteen who are in prison for killing their mother’s abuser. Logan was tried in court as a juvenile and under California law, released at age twenty-three.
Yes, I thought I loved Logan; the easy-going man with a southern drawl, careless air, and flattering tongue. He was strong, like my dad, tough and fearless. I thought if I could just love him enough, if I could take away his pain and the stigma of his past, he would heal.
Like so many other victims, I always excused him. I blamed his past, his stepfather, his friends, his meds, and most all, myself. There was always an excuse. The years came and went, and the honeymoon ended.
He stopped being apologetic for his abuse and started saying things like, “Don't make me do this, Sunny.” “You're not going anywhere!” and “If I can't have you, no one can.”
I stopped excusing him the day I looked in the mirror and saw a woman with a black eye—who looked shockingly like my mother—staring back at me. It was about that time I started thinking that Logan was crazy. I shifted the responsibility for his behavior where it should be; square on his shoulders. I blamed no one but him. And he scared the hell out of me.
Some people would look at Sarah with contempt; both for her faith in an apparently faithless God, and lack of faith in herself. But I admired her spirit and sympathized with her disillusion. It is so easy to feel disappointed when God fails to carry out our plans for our lives; those times when you find yourself saying, “It wasn't supposed to happen like this.”
Sarah had submitted to her husband out of love, not fear. She had faith, duty, and a sense of obedience beyond anything this world could see or accept. Unless, like me, you admire the spirit of the wild salmon whose sad bodies, even now were drifting back to the vast ocean.
I love this woman, I thought. I understood her and wished I could help her lay aside the suffering-Christ she was trying to model, and know the joy of the living God. If only Sarah could free herself from the shackles of her religion.
“I don't blame God for what Parker did. He is a very troubled man. I made a promise, for better or for worse,” she said, “and I won't leave him.”
We talked as I walked her outdoors to her car. “No. I didn't expect you would leave him,” I acknowledged.
She got into the car, closed the door, and rolled down the window. “Do you think I'm crazy?”
“I think God loves you, Sarah. Very much. Real love is about freedom, not bondage. Christ came to set the captives free. You might love Parker, but what he did to you... that isn't love... and it isn't worth dying for.”
Sarah stared at me thoughtfully as she started the engine.
“The restraining order is court-ordered. It will stay in effect while Parker gets the help he needs,” I advised, touching her lovingly on the shoulder. “I suggest you use your time to do the same.”
“It's not possible. How can Logan still be alive? I saw it. The snake. It had him by the throat.”
Chance continued to hold my hand softly, a marked contrast from the tension that gripped the rest of him. “It had him by the skin of his throat,” he said. “He's still in intensive care. I think they are doing skin grafts, probably off his butt. I guess he'll be an official butt-head after that.” Chance tried to make light of the matter, but I was too sick to smile, and he dropped his head as if exhausted from the effort. “I'm sorry to say it, but it looks like he’s going to live.”
“Chance? What did you mean when said earlier that you didn't know whether to kiss me or divorce me?”
Chance pressed his lips together, wearing the strained expression that was all too familiar. “I can't believe you went up there alone, without telling anyone. That was...”
“Stupid? Are you calling me stupid?”
“Irresponsible. Unprofessional. Unnecessary.”
“Stupid?”
“Stupid!”
The tension increased and Chance responded by getting up. “I have to go. I need to feed Mercy and I'll have Ashley pick up Kissme. You need to rest.”
“Yeah, you look pretty tired yourself. Go home; get some sleep.”
Exhausted, he nodded, acquiescing and promising to return in the morning.
I lay in bed, stunned that Logan was still alive. I started to wonder if he really was immortal. I know he always thought he was. My old fears rose as I slipped deeper into a drug-induced sleep. I dreamt that I could hear him shuffling down the hall. He was searching for me, high and low, calling my name. “Sunneeee...”
CHAPTER 38
I was ever so grateful to be alive after surviving the snakebite, but I wanted to die when Travis entered my room. It was early, before staff woke patients with the rumble of breakfast carts.
Flowers and card in hand, Travis looked painfully attractive in casual denim pants and an earthy green T-shirt and matching sports coat that perfectly highlighted his sylvan green eyes and sandy brown hair.
“I brought you flowers,” he announced. “Sunny yellow ones,” he added with a grin as he attempted to arrange a riot of dazzling yellow blossoms in the crystal vase he placed on the table next to me. They were as alluring as the man himself. Leaning over the bed, he tenderly kissed me on my forehead saying, “How's the leg, partner?”
“I'm not your partner. I'm not your anything!”
My voice was low and menacing. Rage boiled from within; betrayal and deception making a toxic brew. Hot tears sprung to the tips of my lashes, but I wouldn't let them fall. Not for anything.
“You said you loved me, Travis. But you’re just like every other man, using women to get what they want.”
Travis froze, but I could hear the whirr of his brain racing full throttle. “Exactly what drugs do they have you on?” he asked, taking a futile stab at bad humor on a rotten day. “You’re not serious.”
“You!” I spat it like a dirty word. “I was just another merit badge for your ATF career and another trophy for your bedroom wall. You used me in every way a man can use a woman. And now you stand here with flowers, making jokes like I am some kind of idiot.”
“Sunny, wait,” he pleaded. “Please. You need to let me explain.”
Why do men always “need to explain” when things are perfectly clear?
“You knew!” My voice was high and tight as I jabbed an accusing finger at him. “You knew that Logan had my father killed! You knew that dead Mongol was the one who pulled the trigger! —How dare you keep that from me?!”
Travis didn't back down. Dropping all pretense of a relationship, he went to full-on cop-mode. He steeled himself. His features hardened as his eyes chambered high-velocity rounds.
“My feelings for you have nothing to do with this,” he countered. “I don't owe you any apologies for doing my job. I do it, and I am damn good at it! ATF has worked on this bust for years and now we have the perpetrator—Logan—in custody. Are you angry about that?”
“You deceived me. You made me think you cared about me. You're just like Chance. You and Paige… all of you… laughing behind my back!”
“This isn't about you!” he interjected. “You want to hear about it, or you want me to leave?” His didn’t flinch.
I clenched my teeth and fixed a stony stare, crossing my arms over my chest, fuming. Nothing Travis could say would ease my rage, but I needed to hear the story behind the events that I had just survived.
Travis studiously turned away, staring out the hospital window as he began his story. “It started back in back in 2002. I was working undercover for ATF. It was a joint operation called Operation Black Biscuit. It was a big one, involving over 500 agents from three different states.”
I had to struggle not to disassociate from the emotional battering that punched me with every word.
“I worked for over a year as a prospect for Hells Angels. I got close to Sonny, and I knew Lefty.” Travis paused, a soft laugh escaped as he finally turned to look at me. “Your dad told me he had a daughter. He said that naming you Sunny was the only thing he and your mom ever agreed on and if you had been a boy he would have named you Sonny, after Sonny Barger.” He dropped his gaze, looking down at the floor, lost for a moment in memory.
“It was a good bust. We got hundreds of guns, grenades—even some napalm. We knew we didn't recover all of it. And we knew the theft didn’t involve the entire club, just some renegade members working with Logan.”
Travis lifted his eyes, but he wasn't looking at me. He was elsewhere, back in time.
“Logan wasn't a major suspect until after Lefty's murder in Laughlin. That was no spontaneous casino brawl. It was a diversion. Lefty's body was found in the desert, a few miles out of town. Alone. It was a professional hit. We now know, thanks to Agent Barros, that Logan took a contract out on your father.
He shifted uncomfortably.
“CSI matched the bullet pulled from your front doorpost to Operation Black Biscuit and the break-in at the Silver State Armory.” Travis tightened his gaze. He focused on me now. “Lefty didn't want his club involved in the armory heist, but it seems Logan had other plans.
“I'm sorry about your father. He didn't deserve that.”
A mantle of sadness overshadowed us as we made eye-to-heart contact. The background hospital noise—voices, telephones, and equipment rolling down the hall—drifted in from under the door, but the silence that lingered between us was deafening.
“What about Paige?” I finally asked. “How does she fit into all of this?”
Travis dropped his gaze and took a deep breath, like the pause of an engine down-shifting, steady and smooth.
“Paige was my wife.”
I tried not to go into anaphylactic shock as I struggled to understand. “Your...?” I trailed, wordlessly.
“Sunny,” his urgency felt like a slap on the face, jolting me back to reality. “We need you to testify.”
This was more than I could bear. The tears of anguish I’d fought so hard to restrain unleashed, spilling down my cheeks. Travis had my tears— but I kept my pride. Gathering the remains of shredded dignity, I lifted my quivering chin and met his gaze with fierce determination. “Why? Why do you need me? You have everything you need. All of your loose ends are nicely tied up now.”
“No. Not everything,” he countered. “You can ID the man who killed your dad. You can also ID the Bandido that Logan hired to blow up the Mongol clubhouse.”
“Tell it to your good buddy, Wild Bill. That's his job, not mine. Now get the hell out of here.”
Travis worked his jaw, his eyes as hard as polished jade; then looked away to control his emotions. “Bill's dead,” he said. “He died at the cabin.”
I felt small and mean. Clearly, Bill had been more than just a colleague to Travis.
“I was undercover with the Angels during Operation Black Biscuit. Bill joined the Bandito Nation later as a part of Operation Black Rain. I had to get out. Bill found out the guns were headed to Mexico, to Mexican drug cartels.
This case is bigger than you, Sunny. Bigger than me.” The hollowness between us gaped like an open wound. “I was safer in the Army, so I did a second tour in Iraq.”
The only sound was possibly that of my heart, shattering like fine china splintering across cold tiles, sending shards of glass like shrapnel into my soul.
Travis was first to break the ensuing silence. “It's not a card,” he said with finality.
“What card? What are you talking about?” I scowled and wip
ed my eyes.
Travis picked up the get-well card and handed it to me. “It's a subpoena.”
Reaching over, I grabbed the vase and hurled it across the room, cursing as it exploded into flying chunks and clumps. Dr. Lance ducked, throwing his arms over his head as he entered the room.
“Whoa! I didn't do it!” the doctor exclaimed. “What's going on in here?”
“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! I am so sorry!” I sobbed as Travis stalked out of the room.
Much like the vase, my heart had shattered, the blossoms of hope dashed to pieces as the doctor hurried to inject something into my IV.
“Easy does it. Take a deep breath,” said Dr. Lance. “You're going to feel better... fast.”
Alternately sobbing and cursing, my breathing rapidly slowed. My eyes grew heavy. Someone wiped my face, and then I surrendered to the doctor's promise of peace.
It was night when I woke. There was no clock in sight and the curtains were drawn, but there was stillness, a pervasive hush that told me the time. I moaned softly, remembering everything. I replayed it all through my mind until I was exhausted. As I drifted off, the face of Madison Crowley floated into memory.
The jury leaned forward in a single motion as if joined at the hip, their faces visibly registering uniform frustration.
“Ms. Crowley.” Amanda Cross, sporting a leopard spotted kaftan and matching turban, raised her voice. Jury members weren't the only frustrated people in the courtroom. Amanda was not happy. “I repeat. Please speak up! The jury cannot hear you.”
I wondered what the problem was as I squirmed in my seat, wishing I could shake some sense into Madison.
She was a tall, middle-aged woman, dressed in clean, green cargo pants and a light sport-cut sweater. She had a lean athletic look with her carefree messy-styled haircut and expensive cross-training shoes. She had spoken loudly just a few days ago when standing in my office asking for the charges to be dropped on Al-Pal. But today, even the judge was straining as she squeaked out her timid replies.