Unexpected Dismounts

by Nancy Rue

  “Nobody’s as bad as he is,” he said.

  “Right. So let him go.”

  Kade released his fingers, but his eyes held on to Troy like a vice. Troy shook out his shirt and smoothed it with his hand. The smile was gone. Game over.

  “Now,” he said, “I’m going to go in there and make this whole thing go away, and everybody will eventually be happy. Except maybe you, Ally …”

  He gave Kade one last look before he turned to me. His eyes were ruthless.

  Pain slammed into my pelvis.

  “Yeah. You will just have to live with the fact that I raped your girl.”

  “Stop,” I said.

  Troy backed me into the column. “I know you, Ally. It will always be there, eating you up. And there is not one thing you can do about it.”

  “Maybe she can’t. But I can.”

  Troy didn’t move. I turned my head and looked below us. Nicholas Kent stood, face upturned, recorder in hand.

  “Let’s go, Mr. Irwin,” he said.

  Troy tried the smile, and it failed. “And where am I going?” he said.

  “Down, sir,” Nicholas said. “You’re going down.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When my doorbell rang the next morning, I didn’t want to answer it. I was sure it was Nicholas Kent, come to tell me that I had only imagined the things that happened the night before.

  That Ophelia had identified Troy Irwin as the man who raped her.

  That he had refused to give a DNA sample, and asked for his attorney and exercised his right to remain silent, even though Nicholas and Kade and I each gave statements about his admission on the station steps, right there between those stately columns.

  That when Troy passed me in the hall, flanked by two clones of Clyde Quillon, the indifference in his walk was obscene. Or that when he met me with his eyes for one transparent moment, he showed me our future: If his brittle image shattered, the pain it held back would find its place in me.

  It was a prophecy I couldn’t deny.

  As I ran down the stairs now, tying my bathrobe, I could see through the window that my ungodly hour visitor wasn’t Nicholas Kent, but Vickie Rodriguez. That might be even worse. Hank said Vickie wasn’t thrilled with my drive-through at the Monk’s Vineyard last night. I felt like I was playing one of those stupid arcade games, where every time you hit a gopher with your mallet, another one pops out of a hole. I wasn’t even awake enough to consult God yet.

  When I opened the door, I was met with probably the largest Easter lily east of the Mississippi. Vickie peeked around it.

  “Is this for the grave I’m going to want to crawl into after we have this conversation?” I said.

  “Happy Easter to you, too,” she said.

  “Wait,” I said. “It is still Saturday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Do I have to wait until Sunday to come in?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Come on. I’ll make some coffee.”

  She followed me into the kitchen and put the plant on the bistro table. It made an odd juxtaposition with the empty Oreo package and an equally empty pesto jar.

  “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” I said. “How do you like your coffee? Strong? Medium?”

  “I think you’re going to want champagne.”

  I turned slowly from the coffee canister, scoop in my hand. “Why?” I said.

  “I got a call from Clyde Quillon at six a.m. Priscilla Sanborn called him at nine thirty last night and said she’s dropping the custody suit. She wanted to come by right then and sign the necessary papers.”

  Nine thirty. Two hours after our confrontation at the Vineyard. The woman wasted no time.

  “You don’t look surprised,” Vickie said. “I was at least expecting the happy dance.” She stood facing me at the counter, hands on her negligible hips. “What did you say to her last night?”

  “It’s more what she said to me.” I saw Vickie’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t threaten her or bribe her or anything.”

  “That never entered my mind. I just want to know what it felt like to out that little witch.”

  I spit out a laugh.

  “You would have enjoyed the phone call from Quillon,” she said while I wiped my saliva from her blouse with a paper towel. “His biggest concern was whether he’s still going to get paid.”

  “That is such a long story. It’s like an epic.” I tossed the paper towel into the sink and felt my face sober. “What about Judge Atwell? Even with Priscilla gone, he’s still worried about whether I’m too crazy to keep Desmond. I may actually go nuts if I have to wait until Monday.”

  “You don’t,” Vickie said. She nodded at the Easter lily, trying to maintain its dignity amid the common clutter. “I don’t bring flowers for nothing.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The judge made his decision when I called to tell him about Priscilla. He said, and I quote, ‘If everybody were as crazy as Allison Chamberlain, this world would be a better place.’”

  “He’s mine?” I said. “Vickie—Desmond’s mine?”

  She smiled, and for the first time in my relationship with this little mystery of a woman, she looked shy. “I don’t know about the world,” she said, “but I’m a better person because of you.”

  “Big Al! You hear that?”

  Wearing only a pair of Harley boxers and a T-shirt of Chief’s that dropped off one shoulder, Desmond burst from his room and jumped up into the sink to look out the window.

  “Morning, Desmond,” Vickie said.

  “Sorry, I ain’t got time, Miss Rutabagas.” He smacked his hand happily against the glass and scrambled off the counter, headed for the side door. “It’s what I thought!”

  I stepped between him and the door and pulled the T-shirt up over his shoulder. “What?” I said.

  “It’s the Classic, Big Al! It’s back!”

  There was no keeping him from dodging around me and out onto the porch.

  “Stan the Man!” he cried. “You rock!”

  “The craziness continues,” I said to Vickie.

  Still barefoot and swathed in chenille, I picked my way across the gravel to the garage where Stan was leaning a Red Hot Sunglo Heritage Softail Classic on its kickstand. It wasn’t my original. She’d suffered fatal injuries. But if Desmond were to tell it, she was Classic reincarnated. For the first time since his accident, I watched him climb onto a motorcycle with his face glowing as only the face of a boy enraptured could do.

  “She’s all yours, Miss Allison,” Stan said. “Ulysses broke it in for you, so you can go right out and ride it like you stole it.”

  “Imma put my leathers on right now,” Desmond said.

  “After I have at least three cups of coffee,” I said. “You want some, Stan?”

  He nodded absently, his gaze on the side porch. “Who’s that pretty little thing?”

  Vickie was waving from the steps. “Your cell phone’s ringing, Allison.”

  It was Ms. Willa, who had clearly been awake long enough to get the morning grog out of her voice. She was yipping like a bull terrier.

  “I want you to come by here this morning,” she said. “I’m ready to make you an offer.”

  “That’s … that’s great, Ms. Willa,” I said, head reeling again. “What time?”

  “Now.”

  I turned to look apologetically at Stan, but he was already on the porch, giving Vickie some of his best stuff.

  “Let me just have my coffee,” I said to Ms. Willa.

  “Coffee’s bad for you. You can have tea here. And bring your boy with you. I like that child’s attitude.”

  She made a tiny snarling noise before she hung up. If I wasn’t mistaken, Ms. Willa Livengood had just laughed.

 
Desmond was in his leathers so fast I was sure he had put them right over his boxers. We were looking at a summerlike April day, but he donned gloves and boots and skullcap as if he were afraid one small deviation from the rules would cancel the ride. The coffee never got made. Stan and Vickie left for the Monk’s Vineyard to see if George and Gracie had any ready, and if I’d kept Desmond waiting any longer, he might have suffered the first stroke in adolescent history.

  Once I fired up Classic Two, the need for caffeine disappeared. She gave me a low, reassuring growl when I rolled the throttle, and her gears clicked under my left foot like the soothing clucks of a mother’s tongue. I eased her into the turn off Palm Row and felt Desmond lean with us. We were three-in-one again.

  Make that four. Because a Nudge guided us up St. George Street. A hand cool as a salve loosened my shoulders to let me weave us through the flower-lined maze that was the St. Augustine Ms. Willa knew. And a whisper told me, One ride at a time.

  There was still no buyer for the Second Sacrament House. Still no room for Zelda and Ophelia. Still no wrapping my mind around the appearance of the son I’d given up. No end yet to the battle with the H-word Troy Irwin constantly forced me into. And no assurance that I would be allowed to keep Palm Row. Or Chief.

  The hum of the bike beneath me roused the pain of all those things. But the Nudge and the Hand and the Whisper kept me upright, kept the engine’s good-natured grumble as my song. For now, for this one ride, I didn’t have to be afraid of unexpected dismounts.

  Until we rounded the corner into the alley behind Ms. Willa’s house, and a large vehicle leaped at us from the other end like a panther lying in wait. I squeezed the front brake before I saw the gravel sprayed across the asphalt. I applied the rear brake, hard, and I might have been able to stop without losing it, but Desmond screamed his chilling nightmare scream, and I jerked the handlebars. As the Harley went into her downward slide, the scene I hadn’t been there for flashed behind my eyes.

  The driver boring down on my red Classic. Desmond crying out in terror. Chief reacting like the father he was, turning, swerving, losing control …

  The car swished past so close its steel brushed my leg. The Classic hurtled into the row of trash cans, and the engine screamed a protest and died as bike and Desmond and I fell against the cans. They clattered across the stones and echoed against the alley walls with the scream, “You can’t have me!”

  I felt Desmond’s hands claw at the back of my jacket and I reached back to grab him—but someone else already had.

  With Desmond’s screams in my ears, I lashed out at metal and garbage and my own panic and tried to drag myself from under the bike. Pain seared through my left leg, but I yanked at it with both hands. I could only raise my head high enough to see black shoes skidding and grasping for traction and dark hands closing over leather sleeves—and Desmond’s body sliding away from me. His legs kicked up from the knees that dragged and bounced across the stone pavement, connecting only with the air.

  With the same tortured exhale I screamed, “Let him go!” and tore my own leg free. I crawled, trying to get to my feet, but the black shoe smashed into my side and kicked me over onto my back. Just beyond, Desmond’s cries were abruptly snuffed out. Mine ripped from my throat.

  Somehow above the clamor I heard the hum of the car window lowering. I struggled to get to my feet again, but the pain in my side flattened me back to the stones. I could only lie there as the black tint gave way to a face I’d recoiled at before, just as I did now. A black patch over one eye, the other empty with evil. A forehead misshapen with scars.

  “Mama!”

  Desmond’s voice shot through me, brought me straight up through the pain, hurled me onto the back of the man who was trying to throw my child into a car and take him away. And nobody was taking my baby away.

  The man shifted his massive shoulders and shook me off. On the way down I caught a handful of his hair and hung on, but it was slick and I slid away. Free of me, he shoved Desmond’s head down and lifted him up by the seat of his leathers.

  The monstrous mouth in the back snapped an order I couldn’t hear over Desmond, his pitch now so shrill and frantic I could feel his panic in my veins. The man gave a final heave and Desmond was shot across the driver’s seat. I heard him crumple into the door on the other side. And then I heard my own body slam into the man’s back again, heard my nails scrape down his face, heard him swear—

  And then I heard a crack that whistled above our heads, above the car, and ricocheted through the alley like a squalling cat.

  The man went to the ground. With the last nerve I had left, I crawled over him and hauled Desmond out by his feet until I could get him upright and shove him under my arm, screaming, “Run!”

  The trash cans ahead were our refuge and I dragged Desmond toward them, sliding and stumbling until I was close enough to push him behind one and throw myself on top of him. Behind us, the car door slammed and the engine tacked up to a livid whine. For a horrified moment I thought it was backing toward us, and I pressed myself into Desmond, my face buried in the back of his glorious head. Dear God. DearGoddearGoddearGod.

  But the tires screeched their way out of the alley and cried through the maze until all we could hear was a window opening above us. And then a screen creaking out. And a terrier of a voice barking.

  “Did I get him?”

  I pulled myself off of Desmond and realized I could barely breathe for the pain in my side. But I managed to say, “You just chased him off, Ms. Willa. That’s good enough.”

  “You all right?” she said.

  I looked down at Desmond, who turned his face to me and peeled a blackened banana skin from his cheek.

  “Are we all right?” I said.

  His marvelous lips trembled and his eyes were only a few blinks this side of madness, but he said, “You kicked butt, Big Al.”

  “Yeah, Ms. Willa,” I called to the window. “We’re all right.”

  “Then you better come in here and have some tea and pick up this check.”

  “We need to call the police,” I said.

  Her answer was drowned out by the whoop of a siren at the other end of the alley.

  Two lanky arms came around me, and a fuzzy head burrowed its way into my neck. “You know somethin’, Big Al?” Desmond said.

  “What?”

  “I think I better get myself baptized.”

  When the two police officers got to us, they found me laughing big old sobs into my son’s hair.

  “Why don’t you just get a uniform and show up for roll call everyday?” Detective Kylie said to me.

  “I don’t look good in blue,” I said. “Hank, where’s Desmond?”

  Hank got up from the couch and started for the stairs. “He said he was going to take a shower.”

  “He’s bathing? Did you threaten him?”

  Hank’s lips twitched at me from the bottom step. “No, I just informed him that he had an eggshell smashed on the back of his neck. He’s been in there for thirty minutes.”

  Detective Kylie looked annoyed. “I just need to ask him some questions.”

  Hank headed up the stairs, already calling. “Desmond! Let’s get the lead out.”

  I sank back into the red chair and held up my hand to Detective Kylie. I could either talk or breathe, but not both at once.

  “What did they say? Broken rib?”

  I held up two fingers. “And a messed-up knee. Desmond didn’t even get a scratch, which is all I care about.”

  Kylie looked at his notepad. “What you’ve told me is pretty much the same as what we’ve been able to piece together from the first accident.”

  “You think it was the same driver.”

  “Same driver, same scenario.” Kylie drew his eyebrows in. “Same motorcycle, basically. Same passenger.”
>
  I didn’t want him to say what I already knew. Maybe coming out of my mouth it wouldn’t sound so certain.

  “They’re after Desmond,” I said.

  “Were. We picked up the driver out on I-95. He was headin’ south.” He shrugged. “We have the DNA from the skin under your fingernails. If you can ID him, he’s done.”

  I turned my head and listened. The shower was still running, and Hank was continuing her litany of, “Let’s go! You’re going to shrivel up in there.”

  “What about the man in the backseat?” I said.

  Kylie shook his head. “No sign of anybody else in the car.”

  “He rolled down the window. I saw him.”

  “Rydell claimed he was alone. That was right before he lawyered up. Now he’s not saying anything—”

  “Rydell?” I said. “Marcus Rydell?”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

  “I don’t. I just know of him.” My mind was spinning. “He rented the car that Zelda supposedly stole and crashed into a pole.”

  “Who’s Zelda?”

  I gave Kylie a hard look. “She’s the woman who was obviously set up by the same people who just tried to run me down and take my kid. You need to let her ID him too. ”

  “Just for the record, only one person tried to run you down.”

  “So … I was hallucinating about the man in the backseat,” I said. “People are lining up to report that I’m crazy.”

  Kylie sighed. “Can you describe him?”

  “I can do better than that. I can show you his picture. But you have to promise me one thing.”

  “Why not? I feel like I’m working for you anyway.”

  “Swear that you won’t mention this in front of Desmond. He doesn’t know this person was in the car, and I want to keep it that way.”

  Cringing at the pain, I reached under the chair cushion and pulled out Desmond’s drawing. Its days under the weight of my angsting and praying had left it smooth except for the flattened wrinkle-scars of Desmond’s attempt to forget.

  I handed the drawing to Kylie, and waited for the smirk, the eye roll, at the very least the patronizing We’ll look into it. I didn’t care. I had to take it as far as I could, or Desmond’s nightmare was never going to be over.