by Dawn Mattox
Sondra must have recognized the impending crisis as Dr. Shelton talked, and she moved to avert it. Excusing herself, she left for a few moments and returned with a hot cup of coffee loaded with cream and sugar and a piece of toast that she wordlessly slid in front of me.
I threw her a look of appreciation and nursed the coffee throughout the interview.
“And that doesn’t take into account the increase of murders along our border towns that directly tie back to La Santa Muerte—the Holy Death cults. Those people have taken over Mexico and infiltrated the United States with the flood of illegals.
“Santeria is the other large religious cult. Drug dealers believe that blood sacrifices, including those of humans, gives them power over their competitors.”
I will never, ever, ever get drunk again.
“And of course, Santeria’s ritual animal sacrifice has been ruled legal in the state of Florida.”
That got my attention. “Animal sacrifice? In America?” Home of Bambi, PETA and the SPCA? I was skeptical. After all, America had had animal shelters long before shelters for battered women. “That’s incredible.”
“It’s true. The Supreme Court ruled that animal sacrifice falls under religious freedom. The river’s cleanup boat picks up about a hundred animal carcasses a week down in Miami.”
“So, Dr. Shelton, would you go so far as to say that ritual abuse is prevalent in today’s society?”
Dr. Shelton finished chewing his food and swallowed. “Absolutely.”
“And that abuse is an integral part of certain religious cults?”
“That would be correct,” said Dr. Shelton, nodding in agreement.
“And those cults are not limited to our traditional concept of Satanic worship?”
“Correct in fact, although theologically speaking, they may be considered one and the same.”
I thanked Dr. Shelton and Sondra and tried not to lose my dignity by walking instead of crawling back to my room, when I was accosted by two advocates I had met in a workshop.
“Sunny! Hi. Join us for breakfast?”
Just shoot me. “No thanks. Nice of you to offer, but I just ate.”
Charles and Terri were victim witness advocates from West Virginia. Charles motioned for me to join them. “You can sit with us while we eat.”
Ughh . . .
Charles and Terri returned with full platters loaded down with a pair of women’s breasts for him and scrambled brains topped with bloody salsa for her, and dead pig parts for both.
God is punishing me. Okay, maybe not.
“Yes?” My little way of telling them to hurry up.
“Well . . .” Charles stopped to take a bite from the poached eggs that wouldn’t stop looking like a pair of boobs. Thoughtfully chewing, words and food mingled, spilling from his mouth. “Oops. Excuse me.” He swallowed. “Terri and I have been talking about your survey questions and, well . . .”
“We haven’t had any ritual abuse cases in our county,” Terri cut in, dabbing at the blood-red salsa at the corner of her mouth. “But what we have had is. . .”
“. . . quite a few cases that involve dead animals,” Charles interrupted.
“Dismembered,” said Terri, ripping a piece of fat from a bacon strip with her teeth. “They were noted by the brand inspector.”
And they think they don’t have ritual abuse in their county. The advocates had missed all the signs of ritual sacrifice just as I once had. Me—and a million other advocates.
Paige was busy packing her suitcase, folding each item with meticulous care as I crammed all my stuff into my bag in a matter of minutes. Home was calling.
“Here. You look like you could use a couple of Tylenol,” she said, handing me a bottle.
That was Paige’s apology, and I graciously accepted it. “Thanks,” I said, bridging the gap as I shook three into my hand.
“I picked up the survey results for you,” Paige continued as if nothing had changed. And sad to say, nothing had.
It is what it is. The two of us had become pretty good dance partners over the past year, skirting and stepping around each other, avoiding the obvious and being careful not to step on each other’s toes.
“Want a look?” she offered.
Yes and no. I felt stupid that I had completely forgotten all about the survey—what with the vicious hangover—but I was burning with curiosity and a little foreboding.
“Yeah, sure.” We sat on the edge of the bed and sifted through the stack of papers, and then Paige compiled the results while I wrestled with luggage.
Paige was good at math. Better than I could ever hope to be. “What’s the verdict?” I asked as I wheeled our luggage to the door and piled our coats on top.
“Okay,” she said. “Here goes: about fifteen percent of the advocates have seen police reports that included ritualistic activity in the form of animal sacrifices, gatherings, altars, or graffiti.”
I stroked my chin and nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Advocates working at shelters typically don’t have access to police reports.”
“That’s true,” said Paige, “but get this: about twenty-five percent of the advocates have either worked directly with clients who claimed to be victims of ritual abuse or had coworkers that worked with RA survivors.”
“That’s more like it. That’s what I would’ve guessed,” I said, returning to sit next to Paige.
Paige glanced at her notes. “Georgia had the most annual cases. The cop from Atlanta has responded to ten cases in his career. Hmmm . . . wish I knew how long that was. The two reps from Macon Victim Witness averaged ten reports a year—five sent directly to them by law enforcement plus an additional five claims from victims outside the criminal justice system.”
The sun set early in December, and it was almost dark by the time we returned to I-5 North. Paige cautiously checked the CD player and then opted for some soft music on the radio before drifting off to sleep.
As we passed the general area of the spinout, I realized that the promise I had made to “think about it later” had arrived, and I began to speculate on the various ways Logan might have arranged for stalking music to be planted in the car I’d be driving.
So many things to consider. My mind wrestled with possibilities. Logan was in prison and had no way of knowing that I was going to San Jose, but then, he had friends who had learned the art of breaking into cars while still in high school. Paige could have slipped the disk in when I wasn’t looking. But why would she do that? And who was the mysterious biker that had tailed me down to the conference? Was it Travis?
Traffic thinned. More people traveled south on Friday nights than north. Somewhere near Stockton, I became aware of a light bar in my rearview mirror—the kind of lights that mount on the forks of motorcycles. I rolled down the window and listened with fear to the distinctive growl of a heavy cruiser.
CHAPTER 11
The engine idled with the lights off and heater on high to keep warm. We were hiding behind a Taco Bell in Chico that caters to midnight munchies. Paige tapped her fingers on the car panel in time to the beat... “I need two supreme tacos and hold the sour cream—it makes me vomit, and it’s an ugly scene...”
I cut her off. “What is that you’re singing?”
“YouTube: Taco Bell rap about food, since you won’t let me get out and get some. I’m starving!”
“You don’t look like you’re starving.”
Paige threw me a dirty look.
I was tired and frustrated. “It’s for your safety as well as mine.” I glanced again down Main Street. I had doubled around the block and cut through an alley in hopes of losing the motorcycle that had tailed us for the past three hours. “I won’t risk anyone seeing you.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Five more minutes, and I’ll take you home. It’s not that far. You can wait.” And she did.
I was still congratulating myself as I approached the observation point just below my home when a rack
of headlights popped on and eased out onto the road behind me. It was three a.m., and I had less than five minutes to make up my mind about what to do next.
It’s Logan! I feel it. I know it. He’s escaped. Or worse—he’s been released. It was only a matter of time.
I was tired of running—sick of feeling afraid. Victims live in perpetual fear. I have worked with victims that still tremble in fear of encountering a long-deceased abuser. Tonight, I opted for anger. Advocates weren’t supposed to get angry, but personally, anger was a fuel that had saved my butt more than once. Sometimes anger could be a good friend.
Done running, I gripped the steering wheel and sped like a crazy woman to my turn off with one hand on the wheel and the other rummaging through my purse—frantically searching for my house key and wishing it was a gun. I fishtailed onto the dirt road and skidded to a stop in front of the house, burying my pursuer in a California version of a Middle Eastern haboob.
“Mercy!” I called. Racing to the dog pen, I released our dog of war with a single move and sprang toward the house with the great dog at my heels. From within the wall of dust, the motorcycle’s engine cut.
Not missing a step, I unlocked the door and raced through the house to retrieve my Glock—always loaded, always chambered with a bullet that carried Logan’s name. It felt good—cold and powerful as I gripped it, crouched low, and took aim—almost shooting the man who was coughing as he wrestled with an enthralled Mercy.
“What the . . . ?” followed by a slight, tight cough. “Are you trying to kill me . . . ” I heard him clear his throat, “again?”
I collapsed on the sofa, overwhelmed with the staggering realization that I had almost shot my husband. He was right. It wasn’t the first time.
Staggering to my feet, I stood over Chance and Mercy and shrieked, “Goddamn it! What the . . . are you out of your mind?!”
Chance reached out and caught my hand en route to his face.
I rode the wave of fury. “You’re crazy! You know that? God . . . I nearly . . . I nearly . . .” Screaming. Shaking. Sobbing. Exhausted.
I could have killed him. But I clung to him instead.
It wasn’t the first time I had nearly mistaken Chance for Logan. Between the roar of the motorcycle, the black leathers, and the powder coat of dust, aAll I had seen was tall and scary.
“It was you—following me home? Oh, Chance.” My voice caught. “I thought you were Logan.”
Still rubbing dirt from his eyes, Chance was in no mood for excuses. “You’re the one who’s crazy. Logan’s in prison,” he sputtered, spitting a piece of dirt from his mouth. “Why in hell would you think I was Logan?”
The gun slid from my hand onto the sofa. Dropped my head intoning, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Still holding my arm, Chance drew me close and enveloped me in a tight, protective embrace. His rough cheek pressed into mine as he nuzzled my hair.
I heard him take a deep breath and sniff back some emotion.
“After I left you, I got a room in town and . . . and I missed you, babe. I felt so sorry for everything. I never meant for Paige to come between us again. I just wanted to be with you. Then, I saw you drive by. I was at a parts store . . . having a little trouble with the bike . . . and there you were, driving past. I decided to come home. I need you, babe. Sweet God, I need you. I love you—I love you.”
His words melted into kisses as they trailed down my neck. No sense wasting all this adrenaline. Talking could wait. My husband was home and back in our bed, at least for tonight.
Sunshine painted bars across our bed—bars that kept us prisoners of winter, until almost noon, when the light finally crept across our swollen eyes. Snuggling deep into each other’s warmth, I started my day with thanks: Thankful for my home, thankful for my life, and thankful for my husband’s sexual prowess. The night was now a lingering dream, shattered all too soon by life.
I bolted upright in bed. “Uh, Chance. I have a question.” I pulled the quilt around my shoulders. I felt the elevens between my eyebrows deepen as I twisted around to face him. “You said that you followed me home from Fresno.” The question was unavoidable. “Uh, did you happen to tail me on the trip down there also?”
Chance sat up, frowning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What are you talking about? Are you saying someone followed you to Fresno?” His handsome, rugged face tightened, causing a shadow to fall across my heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.”
“Nothing ever changes with you.” Chance’s voice tightened. “This is the problem with our marriage. You don’t trust me. Never have, never will. You should have told me everything when I saw you in Fresno.”
I didn’t mean to raise my voice, it just happened. “You mean, like, instead of having sex?”—I jabbed a finger at him—“Or was I supposed to tell you in the middle of your fight with your mistress about your baby?”
Chance rubbed his head. “God, I don’t want to fight. You know I’m done with Paige.” Chance swung his legs off the bed and into his pants. “I know Fresno was another mistake, but I’m here now, trying to make it right. You’re beating a dead horse,” he growled. He shrugged into his T-shirt, yanking it down over his head.
Chance leveled an icy stare and pointed his finger back at me. “I will always regret my affair, but hear me now,” he said, raising his voice. “I am done apologizing. Got that?”
I warmed to the occasion. “Oh . . . excuse me if your whore is in my face every day.” The next words oozed like festering shrapnel long after the battle. “Now you have your damned baby.”
Chance turned away with a huff and stalked into the bathroom. We didn’t talk again until we sat down together over a hot meal at a cold table.
“I called the prison just to be on the safe side. Thought you’d want to know that Logan’s still in custody.”
“Thanks.” I meant it—even if it didn’t sound like it.
Chance picked up a piece of toast and then set it down again, peering at me through tousled hair and two days of stubble sprouting on his face. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
It sounded like an accusation.
“No.”
I stabbed my fork in the egg yolk pretending it was his eye and smiled when it exploded. The weekend was devolving into a familiar duel of hurtful remarks.
I took up the sword. “Not a thing,” I said, my voice razor sharp.
Chance’s eyes kindled as he pushed the plate away. “Really?”
“Really.” My brows peaked, feigning innocence.
I noticed the muscles that tightened along the curve of his jaw were quivering and straining with restraint. I thought his jaw might crack.
“This is bullshit.” Chance pushed back from the table and rose. I froze, fork in midair. “Someone nails a bloody chicken to your front door, and you call it nothing?” He gripped the back of the chair, white-knuckled. “That’s why you thought Logan was tailing you. Am I right? Am I?”
I heard my fork hit the plate. “Who told you about the chicken?”
“What difference does it make? I’m sick of this.” He pushed the chair against the table with finality.
“Who told you?” I shouted, making the table jump as I smacked it with my fist.
Chance spit the word, like a bad taste, out of his mouth: “Travis.”
“You’re leaving? What happened to us spending the weekend together?”
“I can’t take it anymore.” Chance had spent the afternoon splitting firewood, and now he was busy packing clean clothes into a suitcase.
“Can’t take what? What are you saying?”
He dropped his shoulders. “I’m saying I’m sorry and I have to go.”
Desperation bloomed in my throat. I was driving him away again. “I’m sorry too.” I choked out the words. Words that seeded panic across a field of emotion as my eyes prepared to water them with regret. I didn’t want Chance to go. Not now. Not ever.
Chance reached out and
drew me close.
“Please don’t go,” I whispered.
He let me go and stepped back. “I need to get going. It’s a ten-hour drive. I’m leaving the bike and taking the Dodge. It’s freezing out there.”
“I know.” It was cold inside too. “It’s almost Christmas. I want you here, with me. Please—please change your mind. Come home for Christmas.”
“I already told you. I’ll be in Mexico—but we still have a date for January, right?” Chance added with a weak smile of encouragement. “You put in for a vacation like we talked about?”
“Sure.” I’d get right on it. Monday. I refused to cry in front of him. Tears would come as soon as he was out of sight.
“Okay then.”
Then he was gone and I was alone—again.
“Mommy? Momeee!” I heard the distant words while still trapped in the nightmare, although in my dream age I was too old to call Starla “Mommy.” In a blink, I was hugged and comforted by Joyce’s strong brown arms and soft words. My friend and neighbor, Joyce, was more of a mother to me than Starla ever was.
Joyce and her husband, Kenny, lived about a half mile down the dirt road past our cabin. That was where the dirt road ended before dropping into the Feather River Canyon. Joyce who took care of me during the school week after Starla left, while my dad was in Oakland. The arrangement worked for Lefty, knowing I was safe—either with Joyce and Kenny, in school, or at home with Frito. Lefty gave Joyce and Kenny money for their trouble, but I know they would have taken me in regardless.
I spent almost every Sunday through Thursday between fifth and eighth grade with Joyce and Kenny. But when I started high school, I felt grown-up enough to stay at the cabin by myself, knowing that they lived just down the road with an open door, a hot dinner, and a warm bed. Joyce and Kenny were more than friends. It’s just that I needed to be home— in case my parents returned.