by Meg Jackson
Kim read from the first clipping slowly, wondering what interest Damon would have had in the incident. The next five clippings were further reports on the attack, each one shorter than the last as the leads dried up and the chance of catching the attacker waned.
“Besides the sexual violation, the victim sustained multiple fractures to her ribs, a broken nose, a concussion, and bruising across her back and stomach. The victim, an employee of Vince’s, had just locked up the shop and was headed home when she was attacked while attempting to enter her Hyundai. The assailant attacked from behind, and the victim was unable to get more than a brief glimpse of the man before he hit her over the head with what police believe to be a plank of wood, found at the scene.”
Ricky kept her eyes on the coins, rubbing them between her fingers, as her sister read aloud.
“The victim was semi-conscious during the ensuing attack to her person, but does not have concrete memory of her attacker’s physical attributes. She has confirmed that the suspect was a white male, most likely a teenager, and of a large build. Anyone with knowledge about this incident or the attacker is urged to come forward and report to the Providence PD.”
The sisters didn’t speak for a long moment. Ricky’s lips pursed together tight.
“You don’t think…I mean, what’s the date on that first one again?”
“About twenty years ago,” Kim said. “I don’t think it could have been him. He would have been, like, eight. You can’t even get a boner at eight.”
“I don’t want to think about eight-year-old Damon’s boners,” Ricky groaned. “I guess they never released the victim’s name?”
Kim shook her head, flipping through the pages again. “No. I mean, I wouldn’t want them to, if it were me.”
“Well, let me take that to work,” Ricky said, getting up, determined as ever. When Ricky got her teeth into something, you’d be hard pressed to shake it free. But Kim still wanted to try. As Ricky approached, hands out for the notebook, Kim lifted the open pages to her chest and stepped back.
“We really shouldn’t be taking this out of his room,” Kim said. “It’s bad enough that we’re here in the first place, isn’t it? What if he comes home, like, tonight, and sees that it’s missing?”
“What if he doesn’t come home, ever, because we didn’t try to find him?” Ricky countered. “What if he never comes home, and Tricia never comes home, and it’s all because we were too afraid of his wrath?”
“Tricia will come home,” Kim said, nodding firmly. Damon might be unknowable, but Tricia? They’d known Tricia since pre-school. She wouldn’t just leave forever…
Just like she wouldn’t get involved with an abusive man? Just like she wouldn’t get kidnapped the same week her boyfriend choked her out? How much can we really know Tricia anymore? What did all of that do to her…
The sisters may as well have been sharing the same thoughts. Kim reached out, dropped the book into Ricky’s waiting hands.
“We’ll find them,” Ricky said, promising something she couldn’t fully promise. She would do her best. She had to. For everyone. For Damon, for Tricia, for Cristov and Kennick and Mina and Ana. And for Kim. And for Ricky.
For a brief moment, Ricky felt a flare of anger inside her.
You big stupid brute, she thought, looking down at the open book. Look at everyone who needs you back. So where the hell are you?
18
“Hey, Jenny, let’s get s’more beer,” Four-Story called, slurring his words. Jenner stood behind the makeshift bar in the clubhouse. He was on cocktail waitress duty. Scowling, he opened up four more beers and brought them over the men gathered around a poker table.
“Anything else?” Jenner mumbled.
“Fuck off,” Rock growled, taking the beer and swilling from it, hard. The men were intent on getting wasted that night, it seemed.
“Wait,” Crow said as Jenner turned around, an evil smirk on his face. “Has anyone told you yet?”
“Told me what?” Jenner asked, feeling his shoulders sag. Whatever it was, it was probably bad news.
“Shut the fuck up, Crow,” Rock said, finishing off the rest of his beer and reaching for the fourth that Jenner brought over. He always planned ahead when Rock was drinking. It saved him a trip.
“What?” Crow said, glaring at Rock. “I think our little maid deserves to know what’s going to happen to his lil’ buddy.”
Jenner’s interest rose.
“Don’t think Roper wants ‘im to know,” Rock growled, meeting Crow glare for glare. The men were well into the bottle by now, and as much as Jenner liked seeing his captors taking a beating, especially at each other’s hands, he didn’t look forward to the clean-up.
“Why not?” Crow spat back. “Not like he can go runnin’ off to warn nobody. ‘Sides, he’s gonna find out anyway.”
“How’s he gonna do that?” Rock argued.
“Well, who the hell is gonna watch ‘im when we off to Miami? He’s comin’ with us, ain’t he?”
The conversation was making Jenner’s head spin.
“Like hell he is,” Rock said, slamming the half-empty beer down. “We ain’t draggin’ no pansy-ass gypsy traitor along with us.”
“That’s for Roper to decide,” Four-Story said, adding his two cents to the argument.
“And it’s for Roper to decide what to tell ‘im, and when,” Rock grumbled, glancing up at Jenner with pure malice.
“What’s for me to decide now, boys?” called a fourth voice entering the room. Immediately, the three men straightened up in their seats; Jenner, too, stood up a bit taller, caught by the gravity of the man’s countenance as he approached.
“Crow here wants to go blabbin’ to our pretty lil’ housemaid about Miami,” Rock said, throwing a sneer in Crow’s direction, his voice not unlike a younger brother tattling on his older sibling.
“Beer,” Roper demanded, fixing Jenner in his gaze. Jenner made his way back to the bar and returned quickly, handing the President a frosty beer. Roper didn’t try to hide his smile as he took a long sip; before Jenner could see what was going to happen, he felt a thick spray against his face as Roper spit the booze back at him, making the whole table laugh. Jenner bit back the curses in his throat, knowing they’d only make more trouble for him. He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and turned to go back to the relative safety of the bar.
“Hold up,” Roper barked, stopping Jenner in his tracks. “Crow’s got the right idea. You wanna hear something to help keep you warm at night, Jenny?”
Jenner opened his mouth but closed it without speaking, knowing that the question was rhetorical. He glanced down at the three men around the table, their shit-eating grins causing acid to bubble in his gut. He hated them. He hated all of them. He wanted to see them burned alive.
“We finally got a fix on your boy,” Roper said, sliding into a empty seat and taking another slug of his beer. He kept that sip in his mouth, at least. “The big stupid one. The one who offed our Rig. He’s got some fight with some shithead. Thinks he’s gonna waltz in there, one-two and done.”
Now, Roper looked up at Jenner, his eyes cold and steely and hateful. Jenner fought back the urge to return that hate twofold. It wouldn’t do him any favors, he knew. Roper leaned forward, a grin on his gnarled face.
“But he don’t know,” Roper said, his voice a sadistic sing-song. “He don’t know that his opponent is willing to fight dirty for a big enough paycheck. That’s right, Jenny. We’re gonna have that boy skewered in the first round. He’s gonna fall right on his gypsy ass, and he’s never gettin’ up again.”
Jenner’s mind raced. This is it, he thought. This is what I need. He kept his face set, impassive, while inside his heart raced and his blood rushed.
“Why do you think I care?” he said. “I told you once and I told you a thousand times, I wasn’t on their side. I was always on your side.”
Roper snarled, drank from the bottle. When he pulled it away, a thin line of foam remained
on his upper lip. He licked it off before speaking again.
“I don’t care if you care, Jenny,” Roper growled. “You’re a shit-licking, two-faced, pussy-ass motherfucker either way. Just remember, whatever we do to him, we can do to you…double. I wanna see your whole damn troop wiped off the face of this earth. Every last gypsy scum is gonna taste our shit before I’m dead.”
Jenner blanched, fought the emotions Roper’s words incited.
“And you’re gonna be the last one to go, Jenny,” Roper went on. “We’re gonna give you a parade of bodies to look at before we let you eat dirt. Gonna pick off the big guys one by one, and then we’re gonna start on all your slutty, diseased women and your snot-nosed, inbred kiddies.”
Jenner’s hands fisted slightly; he quickly released them, but Roper noticed, and smiled at the reaction he was getting. Slowly, the man rose and leaned closer to Jenner.
“You got a mother, Jenny? Of course you do. Everyone’s got a mother. I bet you miss her, don’t you? When we’re through, you can lick her nasty twat all you want down in hell,” Roper said. Jenner felt bile rising in his throat, waged civil war with his own instincts to keep calm. The table had grown poignantly silent, and Jenner glanced down; all eyes were on him, the smirks and smiles gone.
Roper sat back down with a audible thump, eyed Jenner carefully. He swallowed the rest of his beer.
“Why don’t you go get me another one, gypsy?” he said, twirling the empty bottle on its base. “Make yourself fuckin’ useful.”
Jenner turned, relieved to be excused from the tension. He heard conversation start up behind him, but didn’t have the nerve to try and listen. His mind was too occupied by the throbbing, drumming blood in his ears as rage flooded through him. Behind the bar, he allowed himself to look at Roper while he uncapped the beer. Roper wasn’t looking back.
I’m going to make you pay, Jenner thought. I’m going to make you pay so hard you’ll still be in debt when you meet the devil.
19
As they pulled up to the hotel, Tricia looked at Damon, curious.
“No camping tonight?” she asked, cocking her head.
“No, no more until Miami,” he said. “I sleep well outside, but it’s not the best for my back.”
“Ooh,” Tricia teased. “Old man with back problems, huh?”
He smiled at her, but it was a tight smile. Okay, so age jokes are off-limits, Tricia thought, filing the thought away. She put away the book she’d found in the backseat, a collection of poems by Jack Gilbert. Some of the lines sounded extremely familiar, but she couldn’t imagine herself ever having coming across them before. When she asked Damon, he gave her a cryptic smile and told her she’d probably dreamed them.
They were just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. They had driven through the city already; Tricia was bemused by the almost-too-nice scene there, an antebellum swagger inviting a nostalgia the viewer couldn’t possibly feel. Damon pointed out a restaurant he wanted to take her to while they were in town.
“Husk? What kind of restaurant name is that?” she asked. “It looks fancy.”
“It is fancy,” Damon said with a smile. “I hope you brought a nice dress.”
Tricia hid her blush by looking out the window.
“I still think ‘Spaghett About It’ is a better restaurant name,” she said, turning back to him when she felt her cheeks had returned to normal. Damon laughed.
“Our house special tonight is ‘penne for your thoughts’,” he said, flashing her with that contagious smile.
“We can split an order of ‘one cannoli hope’ for dessert,” she offered back. They both groaned, letting it devolve into laughter.
“We should be put in jail for this shit,” Tricia said, shaking her head with a smile still broadcast over her cheeks. “These puns are criminal. You’re a bad influence.”
“The worst,” Damon agreed, rolling down his window. The air outside was dry and hot. Tricia followed suit, letting the breeze catch her hair. “But I’ve heard girls have a thing for the bad boys.”
He winked at her and she laughed again, feeling a now-familiar flush through her body. Soon enough, they pulled up to a chain hotel and Damon parked, leaving her with the keys so she could use the air conditioner if it got too hot. Tricia took the chance to stretch her legs and saw, behind the lobby, the shimmering blue of a pool.
Perfect, she thought, stretching with the sun on her cheeks. There were times that she could forget that she and Damon had any destination at all, that there were any secrets between them. There were times she could imagine that they were on a honeymoon of sorts, even though the idea made her a bit ashamed of herself. It was silly.
There was something between her and Damon; something sexual, of course, but also something deeper. But she wasn’t the kind of girl who wondered how many kids she’d have with a guy as soon as they started dating. Still, the easy, relaxed nature of their days, the constant change of scenery, the feeling of freedom that came from being together and knowing they would soon be somewhere new and exciting…
Her moment in the sun came to an end as Damon reappeared dangling a key on a ring.
“They still use old-fashioned keys here,” he said, sliding behind the steering wheel.
“Charming,” Tricia mused.
The room itself was basic, with two double beds. The carpet was mauve. The bedspreads were thin and almost crispy, patterned in a noxious, “Saved By the Bell” geometry. The paintings on the wall were yard sale-worthy landscapes. It smelled like a hotel room. It reminded Tricia of nothing at all except other hotel rooms. She loved it.
Putting her bag down, she moved to the curtains covering one wall and pulled them half-open. They were on the shady side of the building, and the windows overlooked the pool. Three men were down there, two sitting together and one apart. The single man had an open cooler. The water glistened in the sun, too blue and very inviting.
When Tricia turned, she saw that Damon had picked one of the beds for himself, sitting on it and leaning back slightly. She plopped herself down on the other one, looking at the clock. It was just past 3.
“What time is dinner?” she asked.
“7:30,” he answered. “I made a reservation.”
Again, Tricia felt a nervousness, a redness in her cheeks that had nothing to do with sun exposure. It was a date, wasn’t it? Everything about what she and Damon did seemed backwards. Usually, you went on a date before you hopped in a car with a guy, before he gave you an orgasm that rocked your whole world, before you felt comfortable sharing a hotel room with him; even one with two beds.
“I think I'm going to swim,” she said, lifting herself off the bed. “Come with?”
He shook his head.
“Didn't bring my trunks,” he said. She bit back a smile. Damon would look exceptionally good in a pair of swim trunks. “I can't believe you brought your bikini.”
“Bikini?” Tricia scoffed. “No, I'm a strictly one-piece sort of girl. And of course I brought it. I'm a girl. We always bring everything.”
“Shame,” Damon said, glancing up at her. For a moment, she wasn't sure what he meant; why would it be a shame that she over packed? Then she realized, and she couldn't bite back the smile any longer. She was enjoying this prolonged flirtation a lot more than she should have. Damon offered a very particular sort of sweet torture, and she loved it. He offered tastes, just nibbles, and each one melted in her mouth, left her wanting more.
Tricia dug through her bag, finding the modest black swimsuit she'd thrown in during her whirlwind packing. Passing by the beds again, she felt Damon's eyes following her to the bathroom; they followed her again as she emerged, wrapped in the far-too-tiny towel provided by the hotel.
“Have fun,” Damon said, laying on the bed with his hands behind his head.
“You know, you can see the pool from the window,” she said, nodding towards the big window that covered one wall of the hotel room. “Just in case you get bored of looking at the ceil
ing.”
Damon lifted himself onto his elbows, gave her a level stare.
“Do you want me to watch you? Make sure everything is okay?”
Tricia's brow furrowed. That's not really what she'd meant at all. She just thought he might appreciate the view of her without the towel around her waist.
“Uh,” she said. “No, I'm alright. It was just an idea.”
Damon nodded, but his expression remained firmly determined. Tricia left wondering if she'd somehow messed up, if Damon's mixed signals weren't mixed at all, but she was just reading them all wrong. She decided to put it out of her head while she swam; perhaps the kinks in her back from a long day of driving were clouding her senses.
20
The few men she’d seen loitering around the pool hadn’t seemed to move much in the time it took her to get changed and walk down to join them. She lay her towel out on a lounging chair, aware of but unbothered by the looks she attracted. A look was just a look. It couldn’t hurt her.
Slipping into the pool, she sighed from the reprieve it gave from the heat, the immediate sensation of weightlessness afforded by the water. She’d been on the swim team when she was younger, before nature gave her a body that didn’t cut through water as easily as her flat-chested, rail-thin teammates.
Now, as she pushed off the wall, she just enjoyed the natural rhythm of her body, acting off long-instilled instinct, her arms turning into knives that sliced the still, blue surface, her legs propellers. She did a few laps back and forth, wishing the pool was larger, then settled herself along the far edge, where it was deepest.
She let her legs drift below her, scrunching and releasing her toes. She gave a friendly wave to two of the men as they left the pool area, their voices seeming muted in the thick air. They’d been talking about a fishing trip. Tricia closed her eyes and thought about going fishing with her father when she was younger, her mind drifting along just like her legs, easy and free. This was a nice moment.