by Cait Jarrod
Earlier, Mathews had peer through his binoculars at the gaggle of agents walking toward the traps from a window on the second floor of Greenwood Manor. He’d nearly come from the thrill of watching big fuzz disappear into the hole. If only he’d died.
He twisted the key to his worn out Celica. The engine roared to life. Time to work off his excitement. He put the car in gear and headed back to his hideaway to find Rona.
****
A sphere of guilt played havoc with rationale, or what Larry perceived was the right action to take. As much as he wanted to hold Charlene close, feel her heart beating against his, he listened to his internal alarms that said by staying he’d do her more harm than good, and dragged himself away. Staying at a distance was best for both of them. So, why in doing so, did he feel like shit?
Charlene needed her friends. People who could listen to what happened to her this afternoon and not let rage take control. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he turned out of her neighborhood onto a main road.
Her ex taking his anger out on the car told Larry all he needed to know. Andrew was out of control. The simple solution to keep her safe would be for her to stay with him, or vice versa.
He shook his head. She’d never go for it. She’d see his motives as controlling and not him protecting someone he cared for.
Charlene’s mood swings compared to that of Jake’s after his car was mangled. One second, she acted like she’d melt in his arms. The next, she took the warpath approach by not letting him know how she needed him. Hell, he wasn’t any better. With their trust issues, they’d kill each other before revealing their feelings.
When Doris Weber had called, he’d just stepped from the shower to assess his body for bruising and scratches. As soon as Charlene’s mother said Andrew Smith was at Charlene’s house, blood roared through his veins, steam rolling all common sense. The continued ringing in his ears from shooting his gun in close quarters intensified. He’d dressed and flown out the door to his Suburban, ready to kick ass.
Larry looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror for abrasions. Not a sign.
The adrenaline died down as he made the last turn on the route home. His muscles ached. Soon bruises would darken his skin. Tomorrow, he’d be stiff, but he was alive. The fall could have been worse.
Great lengths had been taken to keep people away from the fenced in area on Greenwood Manor. Digging fifteen-foot holes and putting rattlesnakes in them made it first-degree murder if anyone died. Jake and Steve had walked the fence row, found four more holes, rattlers at the bottom of each. By the size of the reptiles and their alertness, no doubt they were well taken care of. The million-dollar question was: who, and why?
Known for keeping their activities on a small scale, the Impalers had never done anything more elaborate than selling drugs or taking things they didn’t have a right to have. They called it borrowing. The police called it robbery. Still, they never set traps with deadly consequences. This thought brought forth the question: what type of activity were the Impalers involved in, or by chance, was the FBI mistaken? Did some other outfit run the show?
Larry’s gut twitched. Somehow, some way, Mathews was behind this. The sixth sense that said nothing was as it seemed roared to life.
His cell rang from the cubbyhole beside the police radio.
Kathy Newman.
Sweet ol’ Mom. The only time she called was when her husband used her for a punching bag. Larry cleared his throat to try and keep the irritation out of his tone. Why a woman would stay with a man when he beat her was beyond him.
“On my way,” he said instead of hello.
She managed to say, “Thank God,” before the line went dead.
Rage shot through his veins as he stomped on the gas, made a U-turn, and flew down the highway with the police light flashing and siren blaring.
His muscles tensed as he zigzagged around cars. The number of people who didn’t move from the path of an emergency vehicle frustrated him. In minutes, he pulled onto the gravel road where his mother and her present husband lived.
Her second husband was no better than the first. The piece of shit he had for a father beat him and his mother one too many times before Larry retaliated. The mistreatment from the man who was supposed to give him unconditional love still gave him nightmares.
After Larry went through the FBI academy, he assumed his father would back off with the antagonizing catcalls, baiting him. He hadn’t. One day, the taunting went too far.
Larry parked, and unloaded his guns from his hip and ankle holsters. He stashed them in the console and locked the doors on his way out. The last time he went to a fistfight with a gun, it ended badly.
The cedar siding house had seen better days, but at least it still held up. The jackass wouldn’t put a dime into anything of value. Afraid if he did, too much attention would be directed toward it––and by default, his mother––his stepfather did everything in his power to keep the property just barely this side of the Health Department condemning it. He treated his mom the same, hence hitting her in spots that he could cover up by saying she was just clumsy.
Despite his mother’s past pleas, this was the last time he’d only break up the fight, next time he’d arrest his stepfather or worse—he’d end up with the same fate as his father…buried in the ground.
Larry opened the squeaking screen door and shoved the wooden one back. Screaming mixed with his mother crying blasted his ear drums. Red-hot fury tackled his muscles, pumped adrenaline into his veins. He rushed through the kitchen to the living room. The TV lay on the floor, screen shattered. The coffee table was overturned. Soil scattered across the room. A broken potted plant crumbled in the corner as if it had been used for a weapon.
Roger, his uncle turned stepfather, pinned his mother on the floor with a knee in her stomach. His hands wrapped around her neck.
Larry felt like he’d blow his mind and steam would rush out of his ears and nose. “Get off her!”
The asshole applied enough pressure to frighten her, but not cut off her air supply. A sick joke his father and uncle both enjoyed.
“Now!”
Roger twisted and glared. “This. Is. Not. Your. Business.” Spittle flew with each syllable. He stood.
Men who beat their wives…children…couldn’t be reasoned with. Only one thing they understood…an ass-whooping. He charged the last two steps.
“Think you’re gonna do me in like your old man? Better think again.”
Larry hit him in the jaw and stomach. The younger and bigger version of his dad grunted but didn’t waver.
“Bring your gun this time, pussy?” Roger’s hand flew backwards. Larry ducked.
Each time they fought, the dialogue was identical. Roger making petty comments thinking it’d rile him up. It did, but he shoved it back, not letting the man’s pathetic words interfere with logic.
Larry tagged Roger’s nose, then his gut. The old fart had too much body weight to move fast.
From the corner of his eye, his mother moved. With her, he never knew if he was the good guy or the bad one. Sometimes, she’d come after Larry to stop him from hitting his father, or in this case, his uncle.
When she sat on the couch, he blew out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t the bad guy this time.
Bent at the waist, Larry rammed his stepfather in the chest, lifted him off the floor, and forced him backwards until Roger’s back collided with the wall, Then slumped onto the floor, moaning.
Larry stepped backwards, flexing and closing his hand. He wanted to knock the living shit out of his uncle, but knew he shouldn’t.
Blood covered Roger’s face, and he cradled his stomach.
Larry turned to his mother, who stared at her hands in her lap. “Are you pressing charges?”
She shook her head no.
“Then, I am.”
“Please no, Benny, please,” she cried.
How could he not arrest him? By law, he had to. Personally, he wanted to throw
him in prison and let the other inmates take care of him. They didn’t like people who beat on women, especially women the same age as their mothers.
“Ben-ny, don’t.” Her crying deepened into sobs. She played the card he couldn’t resist. The name she called him when he was a boy.
“This is the last time.” He wanted to tell her the next instance, he’d bring an officer who would have no choice but to make an arrest, but if he did she might not call. A chance he wasn’t willing to risk.
Family screwed with his judgment. As far as he was concerned, she was his only blood relative. Yet, she caused more grief than all the other agents’ families in the department put together.
After a fight, Roger usually behaved for a while. At least, Larry had some sort of consolation and would breathe a little easier without worrying about his mother’s safety for the next few months.
“Ben,” she sobbed.
He held back and didn’t swear at the name she called his father. “It’s Benjamin or Larry, but never Ben.”
“It’s your name.”
“Don’t call me Ben if you expect me to answer.” The man was dead…gone…buried in the ground, and still made his blood boil. He turned to leave, but stopped. The love he had for his mom outweighed the craziness. She was a victim.
Numerous assault cases he’d worked had the same pattern, battered women refusing to leave their spouses. A helpless feeling ate at his gut with each circumstance. With his mom, he felt downright hollow. He remained helpless, not able to do anything to stop the atrocious events in her life, until she decided to help herself. Why women thought they had to tolerate the agony, he didn’t know. Shelters, family members, friends, and several different organizations would help abused women. Now, like previously, he offered support. Until she made up her mind, his options were limited unless he wanted to cut ties with her. Something he could never do.
Sitting on the couch, holding his mother’s hand, Larry’s mind drifted to an event that altered the course of their lives. He shot and killed his old man. When it happened, he didn’t experience elation for their troubles ending. Felt no sadness. The act left him numb and would forever scar his soul.
After years of dealing with his father’s abusive behavior and not able to convince his mother to leave, Larry left home, signed on with the FBI, and was trained at the highest levels. When he returned, the beatings his father inflicted on his mother still occurred. After trying to make him understand reason to no avail, he gave a warning: hit her again and it’d be the last thing he did.
His dad had nodded and understood Larry would do whatever he needed to do in order to keep his mother safe. When Larry arrived at his parents’ house the next time, he ended the life-long battle. In the process, he’d lost the affection and admiration of his mother.
Black, blue, and bleeding from every orifice, Kathy had yelled at Larry, saying she disowned him. A year later, she married her husband’s brother. It disgusted Larry, but he supported her despite her disowning him. Here they were again, in the exact same predicament.
He knelt in front of her, covered her hands with his, and took in her black and blue face. A lump formed in his throat. If only he could throw her over his shoulder and take her to his home. “I wish you’d leave.” He couldn’t stop his voice from cracking.
“I will. Take me to my friend’s house. I’ll stay with her for a while.”
His mother believed being away from Roger for a few hours would solve the situation. “I meant, leave him for good.”
She gazed with the same color eyes as his. Lines etched her face, making her years older than she was. “I can’t. Where would I go?”
The identical conversation they had on numerous occasions. “Live with me.”
“But you have a life of your own. Besides, you’re gone all the time. I’d be by myself. I can’t…” She shook her head. “I can’t be alone, Benny. You know that.”
He did. His mother suffered from autophobia. “Have a friend stay or I can hire someone.”
A groan from Roger broke off his futile argument. He eyed him across the room, hunched against the wall, to make sure he wasn’t moving. He didn’t want any sneak attacks or another man would be dead, this time by his hand and not a gun. “What if I hire a nurse or someone to stay with you?”
Before he finished, she shook her head. She truly believed this type of life was her destiny. But no one deserved this treatment.
Unless Larry declared her incompetent, his hands stayed tied. Arresting Roger would only add fuel to the fire and push her further away from him. At least, he had the comfort of knowing his father didn’t have any more brothers who could draw her into their sick web. If his mother agreed to leave Roger, he believed he could convince her to stay away from other destructive personalities.
One thing he discerned to be true, Roger, like his father, would only go so far with the beatings. If she wasn’t here, they’d lose power. But, damn the beatings. Larry pressed his fingers into his eyes. He couldn’t do this anymore.
He cleared his throat, removing the lump before his eyes stung more. Damn, he wanted her free.
Kathy patted his hand. “You go. I’m okay. Roger’s hurting too much and needs my attention.”
She’d changed her mind about going to her friend’s house. Larry dragged a hand down his face, feeling absolutely and utterly worthless. “Mom—”
She held up a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t.”
He dropped his chin to his chest. Next time, he’d follow through with his previous thoughts and bring Jake with him. His comrade would stay focused and not become as enraged as Larry. He didn’t want to kill another father figure. If Roger laid another hand on her, he would. “You know where to find me.” He kissed her cheek. “You don’t need an invitation to come to my house.”
She smiled. “You are a good son. I wish you’d stop hurting people.”
He grimaced. “I defend. Huge difference.”
“Use your words,” she said with a pat on his cheek, bringing him back to when he was a boy and had a fist fight in school.
“Yes, ma’am.” Nothing else could be said to get her to understand he wasn’t the bad guy. “I love you, Mom.”
“I know you do.”
Larry left the house with the sense he was stuck in a movie that replayed over and over, the same dialogue, the same fight, the same dismissal. He climbed into the SUV, retrieved his guns and holstered them, and waited in the driveway hoping Roger would come after him, yet praying the ignorant fuck would magically straighten up.
Through the picture window, he watched Roger slump next to Kathy on the couch and lay his head on her shoulder.
“Same shit. Different day.”
Larry stuck the gearshift in reverse and stomped on the gas. Tires spun. He flew onto the side road, caught his behavior, and breathed in a deep breath to calm down before he wrecked. Two things he wished: to hear his mother say she loved him, maybe say she was proud of what he accomplished in life despite his odds, and most of all, that she loved herself.
Back on the main road, he glanced at the time. Nine o’clock. The day got away from him. When he and Charlene spoke on the side of the road, he mentioned he’d come by later. After the episode with Jake’s car, he wasn’t sure she wanted company.
She was another person who had been abused. Maybe that’s why he was so drawn to her. A person battered at any age had a hard time coping. No matter how irritated Charlene made him with her mixed signals, he would never lay an angry hand on her.
The drive to Charlene’s didn’t take long. He hoped she wanted to see him since he parked in front of her house. Tired and sexually frustrated, he slid out of his truck, grabbed the flower he picked from the manor that afternoon, and prayed he knew what the hell he was doing.
Chapter Ten
Resting in Henry’s bed, Charlene’s back against the headboard, Henry’s head in the crook of her arm, she lifted the book from the table beside to start their nightly tradition.
She loved this time of day, Henry snuggling and talking about whatever was on his mind. Tonight, he’d remained quiet. His silence worried her. Afraid Henry would withdraw like he had at the table earlier, she asked, “Sweetheart, do you want to talk about anything?”
He shook his head and twisted his hands in the sheet.
Charlene’s heart clenched for her baby. Andrew putting their son in this position, of not knowing what he should say or do, was unfair. The thought sent a new wave of anger through her system. Tomorrow, she’d search for and deal with Andrew. She gazed at the blue wall and then to the ceiling and lassoed in her anger before she tried to talk to Henry again. Hearing her taking crap shots at his dad wouldn’t help her baby.
“Sweetie, you can talk about your father. Remember how we used to sit in bed and discuss how Andrew left?” She hated bringing up the past. It was like tearing open another scab, doubling the pain, but her goal was to help him understand that talking about what upset him was okay.
He shifted from staring at his fingers, twisting in his blue and red Spiderman sheet. Big brown eyes looked up at her. He nodded.
“We worked through a lot of hard stuff. We can do it again.”
His face softened a fraction.
“Would you like that?”
“Yes,” his sweet voice broke. “Mommy, why did Daddy come here today?” He paused.
She wanted to answer him quickly, but knew he tried to gather his thoughts and waited.
“He left me.”
Charlene let out a long breath and tried to remember what her mother had said to her in this same situation when she was a little girl and couldn’t remember. No explanation for why a parent disappeared could make a child feel better. The unloved and unwanted feeling never left.
Instead of making up excuses for her ex like she had for days after he disappeared, she spoke what she knew. “He wants money.”
Right? Wrong? She didn’t have a clue, but she was done trying to smooth things over for Andrew where their son was concerned. She wouldn’t bash him and wouldn’t sugarcoat what Andrew did, either.