by Dawn Mattox
I had gained some respect back in grade school, after shoving a girl into a patch of wild blackberries. But that felt like a long time ago. High school was worse. I didn’t know how to fight against “pretty” or fight against “boys.” That is—until the day Logan pulled up to the bus stop on his Harley wearing Hell’s Angels colors.
Logan revved his engine until it roared like a hungry beast, making kids step back. Then he slowly scrutinized each trembling teen with his piercing black eyes as if searching out his prey, and they froze, mesmerized under his spell. He revved his engine again, making it scream, and laughed when they all jumped back another step.
Then Logan looked coolly at me and said, “Get on, girl.” I walked up to the boy who still clutched my backpack to his chest and didn’t say a word—just yanked it from his grasp and put it on before climbing up behind Logan and wrapping my arms and legs around him. Logan sneered at them, laughed again, and spit on the ground. He cracked the throttle, and we peeled out, leaving them open-mouthed and eating our dust.
I became the most talked-about girl in school, but the kids kept it to themselves, and it was the last time they ever made fun of me. Me—the little hippie-dippy mountain freak turned biker. It was my first taste of personal power in the adult world, and, I admit—it was exquisite.
Logan became my hero second only to my father. I desperately loved him because he made me feel safe and because he was my husband. I did everything he asked because I thought that’s what a good woman did. But Logan became increasingly obsessed, trying to control my every move and thought. He cycled through his highs and lows, and I came to understand the meaning of the word bipolar.
Sex. Logan always wanted more and progressively kinkier sex. At first, it was okay—even adventurous—but over time he grew angry when I didn’t, or wouldn’t, perform to his expectation. Sex was often awkward and embarrassing; his friends downstairs would laugh and joke as Logan barked directions and howled pleasurable obscenities at my expense from our doorless upstairs bedroom.
Things started to change when Logan gave me a fat lip for refusing to repeat lines from a porn movie. Then there was the weekend Logan rode in with another woman and was infuriated when I refused to do a threesome.
The harder Logan pushed, the harder I pushed back. He grew increasingly violent, and being stronger than I was, he soon took what I would not give. Surrender became a form of victory. I learned that the pain of giving in was a lot easier than the pain of healing from black eyes, bloody lips, and sexual assault. And so we parlayed through the ever-escalating cycle of violence. But he never controlled my thoughts, and what was left of my heart would always belong to me.
“I’m sorry, Duncan. What did you say?”
Duncan paused for several beats, wrinkling his brows. “I said . . . my bike should be out of the shop soon. Maybe we could go for a ride.” He paused again. “Are you okay, dear?”
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts the same way that Kissme shakes off sleep when she gets up in the morning. “I’m fine. And Duncan, you know, you are very dear to me also and . . .”
My words scattered and then took flight along with youthful memories as I looked past Duncan into the emerald eyes of Travis, whose silent presence suddenly dominated the room.
Duncan turned to look over his shoulder, starting with a sharp glare that quickly melted like an icicle before a furnace. Dropping his head and shoulders, Duncan politely excused himself and carefully squeezed past Travis, who refused to budge.
Men are so strange.
“Hello Sunny.”
It was one of those awkward moments that continued to fall somewhere between agonizing temptation and steadfast commitment. For a moment, I allowed myself to swan dive into his eyes and let my mind run amok;—running my fingers through bronze hair, imagining rough hints of whiskers raking and tickling my face. I could feel him. I could smell him. Lord help me, I could practically taste him.
It’s a good thing you didn’t show up when I was looking to Dano for help.
Or maybe it was a God thing.
I recalled the night that I had begged Travis to “make me forget” my heartache, and forgive me Lord, but Travis had done it better than any drug Dano could have prescribed.
I just wanted to forget.
But I couldn’t, and he knew it. It didn’t work like that. Good memories are as elusive and fleeting as a beautiful dream, while bad memories are as cloying as a nightmare, impossible to forget.
Reality returned. Clearing my throat, I pushed back from my desk and invited him in.
Travis held my gaze a moment longer. Although his eyes darkened, his features remained smooth and expressionless. The first hint as to the reason for his visit came as he closed the door and slipped his hands in his pockets—a simple gesture that spoke volumes from “Iron Man.” Travis was bearing bad news. He sat on the sofa and clasped his knees. Another bad sign.
My words trembled. “What’s wrong? What’s happened? It’s Quincy, isn’t it? She’s . . . she’s . . .” Something was going on inside. I could feel it. My words gave light to a darkness that I had secreted from myself, and I drew back in surprise, taken aback by the revelation. Something inside me was breaking open, hatching, birthing from something as rare and exquisite as a Faberge egg. A new kind of love was being exposed, naked and vulnerable. I understood for the first time that I longed for Quincy as fiercely as any mother would long for her lost child.
Travis reached out and gently pressed his fingers to my lips, hushing me with a “Shhh, shh . . . it’s okay, babe. It’s not Quincy.” The eyes that had been soft only moments ago now ducked behind a protective wall. “It’s Logan.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Logan’s name almost always triggered the process of disassociation. It was as though I was wired with a voice-activated mechanism to implode at the sound of his name.
“Logan?” My lips formed the words.
Travis’s countenance hardened. “He’s escaped.”
Silence reached out like a thick glove, covering my mouth and pinching off my air as
Travis’s voice faded somewhere in the distance.
“Sunny—don’t! Don’t you dare space out. Pull yourself together. I need you focused and alert.” He took my trembling hands into his warm ones and pulled me to my feet. “Get up. We’re getting out of here.”
Ten silent minutes later—that might just as easily have been ten hours or ten days—found us at a familiar spot we once shared: the spillway beneath the fish hatchery. The wind sliced through my defenses, cold and invigorating as it chased the thundering river downstream. My breath caught, taken hostage by the magnificent scene. The frigid air felt alive, throbbing from the intense surge of whitewater that shot over the spillway, hurtling into space and cascading in a frenzied freefall to the river’s lower level, where it foamed and churned and gathered strength before continuing its mad race to the ocean.
Travis brought me here because he understood the forces that shaped me. He didn’t need to say, “I love you.” Just bringing me here was evidence that he cared. He knew that this place was a fountain of strength for me, whether in the vibrant life cycle of the faithful and courageous salmon or in the force of the river focused on its mission. Travis knew that I was a product of the mountains and it was my nature to absorb strength from the world around me. It was through creation that I was in touch with my Creator.
We stood in silence on the brink of the lookout, holding hands to stay grounded in the face of such turbulence. Then I shouted out, above the tumult of the wind and river, “How? It’s not possible. Nobody escapes from prison. Not even Logan.”
“He wasn’t interned at High Desert. He was relocated to the correctional center for minimum-security inmates. He was part of a hand crew, clearing debris from some roads that flooded. He walked away. They’re doing a search now, but . . . he’s gone.”
“Have you told Chance?”
“I didn’t need to. A BOLO went out ov
er the wires the minute he was discovered missing. Chance called me. ”
I shivered. “How come Chance isn’t the one telling me?”
“He’s on a chopper with Mercy. I told Chance that I would let you know.”
My teeth were chattering, and I blinked hard to hold back the flood of emotion. Travis took off his coat and wrapped it around me, drawing me close until we stood face-to-face.
Our eyes locked, and Travis’s expression remained impassive. His words came slow, even, and deliberate, “I’m gonna kill that guy.”
Trembling from fear as much as cold, I tipped my face up to meet his. “Promise?”
We carefully weighed each other’s words as we both nodded our assent and agreement.
We turned to walk back to the shelter of the car, the noise and intensity fading to a dull roar as we walked. “What are you doing up here anyhow? Why aren’t you in Oakland?”
“Major drug bust coming down . . . but don’t tell anyone, or I’ll have to . . .” He let it hang in the air and winked.
I gave a short, hard chuckle. “I know, I know—you’ll have to kill me.”
“Killing you wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” said Travis.
My smile was back. This time for real. If only for a little while.
CHAPTER 38
Chance called home from Susanville to repeat the news that Logan had escaped. He assured me that a special agent from the Office of Correctional Safety would be watching the house while he continued to participate in the search. There were no significant clues, just the probability that Logan had walked out to a paved road where a car was waiting to pick him up.
I locked the doors and loaded my Glock, tuned Enya in on the iPod, poured a glass of wine, and curled up on the sofa with Kissme. It didn’t work. I turned off the music so I could tune in every sound and found myself gripping the gun at every noise. The glass of wine remained untouched because I was afraid to lose my edge. Tired and wired, the hours ticked away until shadowy fingers of fatigue pulled me down to the depths of sleep.
In my dream, I saw Starla, my mother. Not the hardened tattooed drug-addicted woman who took her own life, but there—rocking back and forth in a high-back antique rocker, wrapped in the glow of a kerosene lamp—was the young woman that I loved to remember; soft as a rose petal, bright as a star, my mother, the flower child. She held a newborn baby tucked in a handmade quilt. Her sweet lyrical voice filled the air as she rocked and sang to the child nestled in her arms:
Don't it always seem to go
that you don't know what you've got till it's gone,
They paved Paradise
and put up a parking lot.
My father worked close by, intently carving a bear from a chunk of manzanita, holding the block with the prosthetic hook on his left arm while selecting from a box of woodworking tools with his right. He was working with surgical precision, patiently carving intricate details.
“Sunny, come see your baby sister,” said my mother, followed by a series of soft, silly cooing sounds. “You want to hold her?” She rose to let me sit in her rocking chair, deftly placing the baby in my arms. “There you go, Quincy,” said my mother to the infant. “Sunny will take good care of you.”
“She’s your responsibility now,” my mother admonished, then walked away into the kitchen.
I continued the awesome task of rocking and loving the baby, a great responsibility that I took seriously. Slate-blue eyes looked up into mine. A rosebud mouth formed the shape of an O. I placed a single finger on her lip, and she responded—a tiny hand with long, delicate fingers that reached up and clasped my mine with all hers. I laughed, and she returned the laughter. For a time, I just enjoyed her sweetness and the newness and purity of the moment.
Lefty stood up and walked over to show us his bear. He mimicked ferocity but growled softly.
I looked at my father with adoration, when the thought drifted in on golden wings; when love is taken against our will—by force or by fate—it is as if our Savior has been buried in a tomb, the sun has failed to rise, and heart torn from our chest.
My mother’s voice wafted through the house carried on the wings of tantalizing smells from the kitchen.
“Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone . . .”
A great truth was revealed that night, and I held tight so as not to lose it on the long journey back from sleep to waking. Nothing is more precious or painful than love that is taken from us against our will.
Special Agent Jean Kent arrived from the Department of Corrections. She followed me to and from work and parked outside at night. I tried ignoring her at first because the only agent I wanted following me around was Travis, and since that would be grossly inappropriate, I tried to ignore the one outside my door. By dinnertime on day three of her arrival, I broke down and invited her in to eat, use the shower and whatever else she needed to do. I didn’t know if we were breaking the rules by doing so, but she seemed grateful.
Day four found Taylor slowing her steps to match mine as I limped along, traversing the parking lot between Mental Health and the main complex. In light of the upcoming event known as Candlemas, Dano had scheduled a session with Taylor at my request.
Taylor had manifested in her little-girl personality called Tinkerbelle and allowed me to ask her a couple of questions. I admit, I felt stupid talking to anyone named Tinkerbelle; the entire affair had felt as surreal as a trip to Neverland.
Duncan waved. He was standing next to his motorcycle talking bike talk with Bonita’s friend. Taylor’s car was parked on the far side of the lot, so we paused for quick introductions. Duncan introduced Bonita’s girlfriend as “Randy,” and I introduced Taylor as “Taylor.” We were making jokes about riding motorcycles in the winter when shy Taylor joined in saying, “My dad rides in the winter,” then pointed to Duncan’s Harley, adding, “on a bike like that.”
Chance and Mercy came home, allowing Special Agent Jean Kent to return to Susanville. Chance was moody and depressed.
“Not a single damned lead,” said Chance. He tried to apologize as if he had somehow let me down. His promises to “track Logan down and protect me” were no more than empty platitudes coming from a broken man.
I missed the shining spirit and joy that had once characterized my husband; back when his heart was filled with faith and hope.
Day five, I was at work when the phone rang. Chance’s voice exploded through the line. “I’ve got it! I think I figured it out. I know why they want Quincy!”
Three heartbeats passed. “Oh my God. Why? Who? Talk!”
“I can’t. I mean—I’m not a hundred percent certain. I have to wait until you get home.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Why are you at home?”
“I promise I’ll explain everything when you get here.”
I groaned. “Noooo! Just tell me. I have to work late tonight.” My brain scrambled for traction. “I have to meet with a victim.” I didn’t want to tell him that the victim was Taylor, so I threw him a bone to deflect questions; “You’re on your own for dinner.”
“Not hungry.” I could hear a huff of exasperation. “I’m working tonight too. I’m here picking up Mercy.” Before I could object to further delay, he explained, “A multi-agency drug bust. I can’t get out of it. I’m sorry, Sunny. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had to tell you or explode.” His excitement was driving me crazy. “I just can’t believe it—all this time.”
“You better tell me now if you hope to live to see tomorrow. Tell me already!”
“I can’t tell you—I have to show you. I need you to confirm my suspicions.” Chance grumbled in frustration at the sound of his cell phone going off in the background. “It’s Mark, probably about tonight. Sorry hon, I have to go. Really. It’s okay. I love you—bye.”
Will this day ever end?
CHAPTER 39
It wa
s the night of February second, Candlemas on the satanic calendar, and once again I found myself parked outside Taylor’s house. This time I was in the brand inspector’s vehicle and in the company of Forrest Woods. If there were animal sacrifices planned for tonight, I had Forrest to make an arrest. And if Taylor really did have a sister in danger, I would have a backup. Forrest told me that he had been in combat in Afghanistan, and although he was young and easygoing, he wasn’t someone to be messed with.
Forrest was working on a tall can of Red Bull, drumming his fingers as if he were on can number three. We were passing the time, parked along a row of ancient eucalyptus trees planted by the forty-niners—not the football team.
“Isn’t your husband a sheriff?” Forrest asked.
“Yes.”
“Then, if you don’t mind my asking, why isn’t he here instead of me?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Oh.”
Forrest just nodded, apparently wise enough in the ways of women not to pop the top on my remark.
“Hey, Forrest, I’m just wondering,” I said. “Remember that silver charm that you found at the site of the blood moon gathering? The one with the heart and baby footprints? Did you ever link it to anything?”
Forrest set down the can of Red Bull and thoughtfully tapped a can of Copenhagen. “No. But it’s funny you should ask.”
“Funny how?”
“Some guy from the DA’s office picked it up a couple of days ago.”
I put on my best poker face and played my card. “The guy—what did he look like?”
“Really big. Spiky hair, earplugs, Johnny Depp glasses. Kind of strange. Who is he?”
“Top tech for the county. His name is Duncan. Probably going to photograph it or something,” I lied, turning the charm over and over between my fingers deep within my coat pocket, all the while wondering what Duncan was up to.