The Girls I've Been

by Tess Sharpe

O’Malley: Take these cuffs off. Right now. My kids are in that building. It is on fire. Give me the fucking keys!

  Deputy Reynolds: The fire department’s on the way. Calm down.

  O’Malley: I’m going to kill you.

  Deputy Reynolds: Lee, I know you’re upset, but you need to stop it.

  O’Malley: I—

  [Shouting]

  Deputy Reynolds: Shit.

  O’Malley: Uncuff me! Someone’s coming out!

  Deputy Reynolds: I’m to stay with you. Sheriff’s orders.

  O’Malley: Jessie—

  [Screaming]

  O’Malley: That’s Nora.

  [Scuffling]

  Deputy Reynolds: Do not make me pull my gun on you!

  [Indiscernible yelling]

  Deputy Reynolds: Did she just say . . . ?

  O’Malley: Jessie! Uncuff me!

  [End of transcript]

  — 55 —

  12:19 p.m. (187 minutes captive)

  1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys, 1 hunting knife, 1 chemical bomb (detonated), 1 giant fire starter (on fire), the contents of Iris’s purse (also on fire)

  Plan #1: Scrapped

  Plan #2: On hold

  Plan #3: Stab

  Plan #4: Get gun. Get Iris and Wes. Get out.

  Plan #5: Iris’s plan: Boom!

  Third time is not lucky as he drags me down the hall again. I’m dazed, not knocked out but throbbing-hazy, the smoke and the smack to the head not helping. I fight him this time; I’ve got nothing to lose, I’ve got everything to lose. Iris. Where is she? I can’t see her. She went down. He brought her down, somewhere near the door he popped out of like a murderous jack-in-the-box. He’s not bleeding anymore. Red Cap must’ve woken him and patched him up. Stupid, stupid, stupid man.

  The fire. It’s spreading. I can hear the crackle crackle roar of it, see the smoke belching out of the bathroom. The paint’s bubbling up the walls, and the heat’s swirling. It’ll reach the hall soon. We need to stop it. Wes is trapped.

  I scream his name and hear banging on the wall. Fists hammering on the door and muffled words I can’t make out. I scream to get low. I scream about blocking the crack in the door and all the other fire safety stuff that is nonsense when you’re trapped. He’s trapped. He can’t be trapped. This can’t be it. Not fire. Not like this. Not after everything.

  I fight against Duane’s grip on my wrists as he drags me past Red Cap, who’s still a moaning, Drano-burnt mess. He dumps me at the end of the hall, much too close to the fire, and turns back to Red Cap. I struggle to my feet, staggering backward into the pocket of air that’s near to searing.

  It’s lickety-split fast, and I saw it coming from the first time I watched them interact, but you can’t steel yourself for seeing it up close. One second, Red Cap’s raw and groaning, and two quick shots later, there’s nothing, because he’s not anything anymore.

  I huff out a breath. I need to keep screaming. Wes. Iris. I need—

  Oh God, he’s really, really dead. The entire world swoops in the smoke.

  “Stay there,” Duane growls. He turns, and the smoke is choking-thick and acrid. My skin pinks up from the heat as the flames crawl closer to the bathroom doorway. I need to get up. No . . . crawl. I need to crawl. Stay low. Get to the table blocking the office Wes is in. Get him. Get Iris. Get out.

  Before I can move, Duane’s back, and he’s got Iris slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

  “Did you . . .” The question dies in my throat. I can’t say it. I can’t breathe. No. No. No.

  “I just knocked her out.” He laughs. “She makes a good human shield, all these layers.” He flicks the edge of her skirt and petticoat at me through the smoke.

  I flush hotter than the fire, fist-curling against the need to hurt him.

  “Come on.” He gestures with the gun.

  “No. Not without the boy.” Leaving the rest of them behind is monstrous. I don’t care, in that moment. I’ve got Iris in my line of sight. I need Wes, and then I’ll go. I’ll leave them. I left my own mother, after all. Leaving is what I’m built for.

  Duane’s eyes dart over my shoulder. The flames must be growing. I plant my feet. I can wait him out. I can play chicken.

  “Now,” he says.

  I shake my head.

  He shoots. Just like that. The plaster above my head splatters everywhere, a chunk of it hits my arm.

  “Move, or she’s next.”

  I have to move to survive. I’ll die if I leave him behind. I have to protect Iris. I can’t protect Wes. The thoughts misfire in my panicked head as he pushes me forward.

  I have no way to spin this, and if you asked me who I am right now, I would tell you: scared, scared, scared.

  Duane has two-thirds of everything I care about in this world in his hands, actually and metaphorically. He knows it now and he’ll use it.

  The basement smells metallic and charred from the welding equipment scattered near the hole in the bars Red Cap made, all for nothing. Duane doesn’t even look toward the safe-deposit boxes; he’s got another prize now—he just needs to get away with me.

  This is not how my plan was supposed to end. This is not how it was supposed to happen. Iris isn’t supposed to be draped over him, rag-doll limp, her curls and feet dangling. Wes isn’t supposed to be upstairs, all alone, huddling away from the smoke pouring in. Oh God, he’s all alone. He can’t. Not like this. Not like this.

  I’m screaming as Duane pushes me out of the bank. I’ve gone feral, every tool and clever trick chased from my head in a flood of smoke and trapped, Wes is trapped in there.

  He has Iris slung half across him like the human version of Kevlar, and me in front, the shotgun pressed against my back, but it doesn’t stop me. I keep screaming Wes’s name, and Get him, go get him at the scrambling deputies. But they stay crouched behind their patrol cars, guns aimed, and I can see it in their faces: There’s no clear shot. I don’t see Lee. Where is Lee?

  It’s a blur as the smoke rises and Duane pushes me forward. The barrel digs into my back and there’s no way out or back or forward. There is no spinning away from this. Someone’s going to take the first shot, and then . . .

  My eyes snag on the edge of his jacket, and then my mind snags on it half a second later. The jacket. He wasn’t wearing a jacket earlier.

  He’s wearing Red Cap’s jacket. Why?

  It clicks together like Newton’s Cradle, one thought hitting another like those little silver balls, the connection snapping through me, cause and effect.

  Red Cap kept handing over the weapons, both of them, like it was nothing. I thought it was trust. I thought it was stupidity.

  It wasn’t.

  He was armed the entire time.

  He has an ace up his sleeve. That’s what I’d scribbled on my note to Lee. The most useful thing I could think to give her: my gut feeling about this man. I hadn’t realized how literal I was being.

  He reaches into the jacket pocket. My mind races, ticking balls hitting each other, back and forth, back and forth. Small. Portable. With enough effect to facilitate escape.

  My mouth opens to scream it before he even pulls it out.

  “GRENADE!”

  — 56 —

  12:26 p.m. (194 minutes captive)

  1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys, 1 hunting knife, 1 chemical bomb (detonated), 1 giant fire starter (on fire), the contents of Iris’s purse (also on fire)

  Plan #1: Scrapped

  Plan #2: Working a little too well

  Plan #3: Stab

  Plan #4: Get gun. Get Iris and Wes. Get out.

  Plan #5: Iris’s plan: Boom!

  Plan #6: Don’t die.

  I’m too late. He’s too fast
. They’re too slow.

  He doesn’t throw it through the air, there’s no graceful arc. He chucks it underhand with the kind of slow roll that makes it skitter-soar right under the middle squad car.

  They scatter like spiders, but not far enough. Boom. The car goes flying up and then back, and he grabs my arm, pulling so hard that this time I’m yelling from pain.

  It’s all smoke and fire and confused shouts, and he shoves me and Iris into the back seat of some car parked behind the bank. We squeal out of the parking lot before the deputies can recover.

  He whoops as he zooms down the ranchland highway, no one following us yet. His elation is thick in the air and it just spells death for me, but why should he care? He’s nearly home free.

  His smile turns mean when he catches my eye in the rearview mirror. My hand tightens around Iris’s arm, hoping it’ll wake her up. But she’s still slumped; there’s a bruise on her forehead that doesn’t look good, but at least she’s not bleeding. That’s good. Right? Unless it means she’s bleeding inside.

  “Finally quiet, huh?” he asks me.

  I’ve got nothing left and nowhere to go. I’ve got the knife in my pocket, but I can’t stab him, driving at this speed. He might shoot me or Iris. He’s already proven too fucking hardy for my own good, since stabbing him the first time didn’t stop him.

  I’m racing through it, the anatomy I need to hit, and I’ll need to go for the neck, right? But then he might slam on the brakes by instinct. This fast, the car might flip. It’s old. There aren’t airbags. We’re not even belted in.

  The world blurs and my mind turns and turns, trying to find a solution, because there’s no sound of sirens behind us or even in the distance. They’re not coming. They’re too busy back there.

  He’s slowing down. My body goes alert, find an exit, con your way through it, and my hand tightens around Iris’s wrist. I need her to wake up, but she’s not. How hard did he hit her?

  We’re turning, off the two-lane highway and onto one of the offshoot roads that litter this stretch of outskirts. Gravel crunches under the tires as he speeds down the road, acres of rolling hills and scrub oaks for as far as the eye can see. Where is he going?

  The gravel road curves and I spot it: the barn. He’s going to hide the car. They’ll never find us. He’ll kill Iris. Wait until night and take me out of the state. They can’t set up checkpoints everywhere. There are back roads that are a tangle of logging and mining trails that no one bothers with, but you can get all the way to the coast if you take the right ones.

  I have to make a move. Now.

  I look at Iris. I can’t leave her. I have to. If we’re going to have any chance, I have to get him away from her. Take away the leverage. He’ll follow me. He’ll leave her behind. He’ll have to.

  I’m the only valuable thing he’s got at the end of this shitshow. He needs me.

  The barn’s getting closer and closer. He’s driving too fast down the road.

  Now or never.

  I jerk the car door open and pitch myself out of it, and let me tell you, I could’ve really used my damn flannel at that point, because rolling out of a car and onto gravel tears the hell out of your T-shirt and your skin. Pain peppers my arms and shoulders like buckshot, but I force myself to get up as I hear him swear and yell and jerk the car to a stop.

  Yes. Yes. The car’s still out in the open. If they get a chopper in the air, they’ll spot it. Go. Run. Make him chase you before he kills Iris.

  I run toward the barn, because maybe there’s a weapon, maybe there’s a pitchfork, maybe there’s a tractor I can run him over with. I don’t care. I’ll find it. I’ll use it. I’ll kill him if I have to.

  I think I’m going to have to.

  — 57 —

  Raymond: How I Did It (In Four Acts)

  Act 3: Slice

  Five Years Ago

  Shooting Raymond didn’t kill him. Obviously.

  I could spin this. I could say that I never wanted him dead. That I’d aimed for his leg on purpose.

  I’d be lying. My hands were shaking and it was dark, and I was just a bad shot. (I’m not anymore.)

  Sometimes I still regret not pulling the trigger a second time and finishing it.

  Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I’d just walked off that beach and kept going, leaving him in the sand and Mom in the McMansion . . . and just fading into the world, where no one would find me.

  I know how to disappear. Mom raised girls who could go invisible, ciphers who could turn into someone else with a bottle of drugstore hair dye and a smile in the mirror as they repeat names like a magic spell as they are born anew.

  I made a different choice. To stop running. To be visible. To stand still.

  To learn how to be someone real instead of a juggled handful of hurt and cons and hunger.

  Things happen fast after I squeeze the trigger. He falls, but he doesn’t pass out. He reaches for me, and I react, just like before. Like I know what to do now. This time, I don’t miss, but my weapon is different. I clock him with the edge of the metal box, right on the temple, and he goes facedown on the sand, but he’s still not out. So I hit him again. And again.

  And then I’m still, the box raised high, poised for another blow, and he’s finally limp. My heartbeat’s roaring in my ears louder than the waves, and I want to run.

  But I can’t. Because I’m not done.

  There’s a plan in place. My sister’s getting me out. It was just eight days away, and now . . .

  Plans change. Oh, God, look how I’ve changed them.

  I stand there on the beach; my feet are bare, and sand grits between my toes. I know how the world works; I especially know how turning snitch works. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. Turning snitch, so the FBI puts my mother and Raymond away. So we’ll be safe. But the FBI needs hard proof. That was the deal my sister made with them. I get them the proof and I’m out of reach for good.

  I need leverage. I need to get in Raymond’s safe.

  My hands curl around the box. Along with the gun, two other things are inside it: the burner cell my sister uses to contact me. And a knife.

  Raymond’s safe is biometric. It needs a fingerprint. My sister is supposed to get me a kit to take the print. But I’ve fucked everything up and now I’m here, with too many bruises and too little time and absolutely no fucking calm, because I shot him. I shot him and I knocked him out, so there’s no taking it back and I’ve got a metal lunch box with a knife in it, and we all know where this is going, right?

  There’s no taking it back. There’s only moving forward.

  I need in his safe.

  So I set the lunch box down on the ground and I get the knife.

  — 58 —

  Transcript: Lee Ann O’Malley + Deputy Jessica Reynolds Pursue the Hostage Taker

  August 8, 12:30 p.m.

  Deputy Reynolds: Go! Go!

  O’Malley: Do you see him?

  Deputy Reynolds: This is Deputy Reynolds. I need someone to get the hospital chopper or the fire chopper on Highway 3, heading north and looking for a white four-door. We need to set up roadblocks on the 3 and the 5 immediately.

  [Recording cuts out for 3 minutes, 56 seconds. Please refer to Sheriff’s Report Part 3A for the dispatch transcript.]

  Deputy Reynolds: We’ve got the hospital chopper scanning the area.

  O’Malley: They need to hurry.

  [4-minute, 21-second silence]

  [Voices over police radio, indiscernible]

  Deputy Reynolds: Okay! Okay. I need all available officers in the area. This is Deputy Reynolds. The white sedan we’re in pursuit of has been spotted at the abandoned Williams Farm, 1723 Castella Road. Hostage taker is armed and dangerous. He has two teenage girls as hostages. Proceed with extreme caution.

  O’Malley: Go.

&
nbsp; Deputy Reynolds: Lee, we need to talk about what happens when we get there.

  O’Malley: You uncuffed me.

  Deputy Reynolds: You punched me.

  O’Malley: If I say I’m sorry, will you give me a damn gun and let me have your back?

  Deputy Reynolds: Are you gonna follow my orders?

  O’Malley: I’ll have your back.

  Deputy Reynolds: That’s not an answer, Lee.

  [Distortion for 2 minutes, 16 seconds]

  [Car door slamming]

  [Transcript ends]

  — 59 —

  12:32 p.m. (200 minutes captive)

  2 safe-deposit keys, 1 hunting knife

  Plan #6: Don’t die.

  I ran from Duane’s car. Now it’s time to hide.

  I dart through the barn doors and slam them shut. But there’s nothing I can see that’ll block the doors from the inside, and I don’t want him to lose interest and go back to Iris. I watch him walking toward the building through the slats in the door, my blood screaming at me to keep running. He’s not moving fast; the stab wound’s still bothering him, even if the initial pain’s faded. He’ll want to be careful. He needs to be in the best shape he can, to get me across the country. He can’t put me on a plane, and he might be the kind of guy who knows someone with a boat who’ll smuggle me, but does he have that kind of money?

  My gut tells me no. Because he pulled this shitshow of a job with Red Cap. Duane’s desperate and broke and he’s going to try to hang on to me, risky as it is, because it’s the best payday he has now.

  The barn’s dark, there are tarp-covered machines in the stalls that used to house horses. I tilt my head up; there’s a loft and a ladder, but the ladder’s wood and heavy. I wouldn’t be able to pull it up.

  But I might be able to trap him up there. I just need to draw this out long enough for the car to be found. That’s all.

  I’m trying to fool myself. It’s not working. But I keep going. I bend down and grab a handful of dirt from the ground before I clamber up the ladder. The hayloft is large, flat and wide across half of the barn, looking out over the stalls and the entryway, sunlight streaming in from a big window in the back.