by Lisa Libby
I read her note again, contemplating if I should help her.
Mr. Alterman,
It is important that you know where I am, since you may be one of the few people I can trust. I’m stopping at Guns and Roads, a shooting range in Lincoln, NH. If I don’t phone you by day 5 at 5:00am, please send Johnny to help me. I know you know who Johnny is because you’ve been tailing him when he leaves my house. He will know what to do.
Ava
I’m impressed that she knows I have been following Johnny. I know Johnny won’t figure it out, he isn’t a smart young man, and to think he works for the Mob. He will most likely be dead or in jail in no time.
As I sit staring at the note, something isn’t right. Why would Ava be afraid of going to a gun range? I can’t shake the bad feeling in my gut. I open the app to the tracking device on Johnny’s car. His cars at a local strip club—shocking—he frequents this location almost daily. I’ll leave an anonymous note on his car. In the meantime, I will try to call Ava again.
JOHNNY
CHAPTER 11
STAN
I’m driving erratically on Highway 93 heading South bound, to visit the boss. What did those fuckers do with Ava? I know she has something to do with Ava going missing. They wouldn’t send me to do the job or tell me because they know I like her and may feel the need to warn her. Perhaps Atlantic has something to do with it. I still don’t understand how Ava’s acquaintance knew where to find me. My head is pounding from all the thoughts mashed with the hangover.
No sooner do I pull up to my father’s house than my phone rings. She’s called a meeting. Just the sons of bitches I was looking to talk with. I don’t get out of the car. I see my father sitting in the kitchen window. Looking back at me, he waves. He knew about the meeting before it was even called. He was once in my shoes at his age. He says he retired, but no one retires from the ‘Family’ business.
I walk into the meeting, ready to pounce on my boss asking about Ava’s whereabouts. I decide this is not the best time. Perhaps a better approach would be to admit that I lost track of Ava and somehow, she slipped out of my sight. Then my boss will break a few of my fingers, if I’m that lucky. I think it’s best to be calm and listen at the meeting before putting my foot in my mouth.
I chickened out at the meeting, I didn’t mention Ava and neither did my boss. As soon as it was over, I headed North to find Ava with a trunk full of guns and my right-hand man, Stan.
Stan and I grew up together in Southie. My parents took him in after his father went to jail. His mother was a whore working out of the combat zone in Chinatown, at the time the most dangerous intersection in downtown Boston. On occasion, she would show up at our home uninvited with her pimp boyfriends. My father promised Stan’s father he would take care of him while he served a life sentence. Every time his mother showed up, it took Stan weeks to shake the anger she brought out of him. He would lock himself in the attic for hours and would skip family dinners. My father hated to see Stan go through this time and time again.
When Stan and I turned 16 years old, our birthdays just a few months apart, my father bought us both a car. They were the shittiest cars on the block, but we loved them. We would tinker with them every day after school and every weekend. We replaced the radios, toyed with the engines, cleaned, painted, buffed out minor dings and dents. The car was just another thing my father bought me, but to Stan this was everything to him. His car ended up being nicer, cleaner, and just overall ran better. My car was never finished; I lost interest. He had a father figure who he respected and who showed care, and admiration.
The last time I saw Stan’s mother was when Stan blurted out that his mother molested him as a child. His father didn’t know what was happening when he was at work. I will never forget the day – we were all eating dinner after a stressful day of having his whore mother show up. My father convinced Stan to have dinner with us. Stan didn’t eat, he just stared at his plate, moving his food from one side to the other and taking occasional sips of his drink. Then be blurted it out, like he was telling us the weather for the week. My mother ran from the table in tears. My father stayed silent, gripping his fork and knife so tight his knuckles were white, then ordered us to go sit in the living room. He joined my mother upstairs, only returning downstairs when someone knocked at the door. I didn’t dare move from the living room; my father scared us. That time in the living room I didn’t know what to say or do. I thought of hugging him, but we were not allowed to show affection.
The priest sat in the kitchen with my mother and father and prayed together before he came to the living room. My mother, clenching her rosaries, motioned me into the kitchen. I followed her outside to the backyard, and the memory just ends.
Till this day, I still hold a deep secret from Stan. I know why Stan’s mother stopped showing up. My father took care of his mother – either he killed her or instructed someone else to. I couldn’t tell Stan this; he thought the world of my father, thought he could do no harm, even to this day. Stan is the son my father wanted all along. In my mind, my father never stated that, but Stan worked for my father, took over the stores and restaurants. I didn’t do jack shit, sitting on my ass, enjoying my father’s money and spending too much time with the ladies. My father wanted me to focus on money, the business and socializing. I didn’t envy Stan; I was happy that someone else could take my father’s attention away from me.
So, who better to take along to find this crazy bitch Ava than Stan?
“I’ll assume that the boss doesn’t know you’re on this trip to find your Cinderella,” says Stan with a wide grin.
I throw him the ‘shut the fuck’ look. I don’t have to answer; he knows I make moves with barely thinking things through.
“There’s a lot of shit you know nothing about, my old friend. Like my ass is on the line if this girl doesn’t return to Boston to testify.”
“Don’t worry about it, we’ll find her and if someone has taken her or hurt her, we’ll find them. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve given someone a good ass whooping, outside the boxing classes.”
“Oh, please, your boxing classes are full of skinny females and old men wearing diapers.”
“I could kick your ass with one hand behind my back.”
“Just because I used to sit behind a desk most weeks, doesn’t mean I don’t get my hands dirty.”
We fight like brothers. He knows I am only playing with him; Stan could kill me with his pinky.
The rest of the ride to New Hampshire we are quiet. The snow falls heavier the closer to the mountains we get. The GPS is cutting in and out, keeps saying we are thirty minutes away and then saying recalculating route. Goddamn the ride is long to this shooting range.
AVA
CHAPTER 12
Rescued
I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but I wake with the feeling of something heavy sitting on my chest. I can’t breathe, I feel wetness on my legs. I pull my chin up to see what is heavy on my legs. I see the fat kidnapper lying on top of me. My arm is pinned between the floor and the chair. It hurts so bad I’m doing everything to hold back my tears and screaming from the pain. I play dead, when I hear heavy footsteps approaching. It must be the other kidnapper, but how was the fat kidnapper killed? Then I hear a familiar voice calling me. It’s the Indian from the shooting range.
Holy shit! How did he find me, and is he here with the kidnappers or here to save me?
“I will help you up,” he says.
He pushes the fat one off me and lifts the chair. I feel immediate relief in my wrists. The Indian sits me on the edge of the bed and cuts away the tape from my wrist and feet. I look down around my feet at the blood and two bodies. He’s shot the skinny one between the eyes and the fat one looks like he got a shotgun to the back of the head.
The Indian leans down to pull the tape off my mouth. It’s caught in my hair, but he
pulls it down enough for me to speak.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I… I… I’m fine,” the words come out. It’s as if I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’ve been talking to myself inside my head for so long, it feels strange to hear myself.
“Do we call the cops now; how does this work?” I hesitate to keep asking questions.
The Indian roars with laughter. I feel uncomfortable by the insane look in his eyes matched with his deep laughter.
“We don’t call police. We take care of it.”
The White Man from the shooting range appears in the doorway with a bucket and what appears to be cleaning supplies.
“Get up girl, it’s time to clean up the mess you dragged into our motel.” He hands me blue latex gloves.
I stare at the blue gloves, still in shock. The Indian and White Man wrap the bodies in plastic and tarp and throw them in the kidnappers’ car. Then just like that, I’m an accessory to murder. I begin to scrub the evidence from the motel room walls and ceiling. A shotgun is messy to clean up, the blood and brain matter splattered everywhere. I throw everything not nailed down into trash bags: beddings, pillows, curtains, and even lampshades. The blood on the carpet isn’t as easy, it won’t disappear, no matter how much I scrub. I scrub and spray and pat with paper towels, soaking up the blood. I repeat this process for what feels like hours, before it finally disappears. Whatever chemical is in this bottle worked. All evidence has faded from the room, but the smell of death lingers.
I’m not sure where they’re going with the bodies or car, but I don’t care. I’m tired, hungry, dirty, and just want to get back to Boston.
The Indian enters the room with a cat carrier.
“Skunks – they will piss everywhere, giving us reason to clean the room without suspicion,” he says, unlatching the cage.
“You cleaned good, come,” he motions me out the door.
An old woman in a bathrobe and slippers walks out of her motel room waving down the Indian.
“Indian, skunks again? I heard a lot of shooting in that room next door. The boys you rented to scared off the bears near the trash,” she says, speaking with a lit cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
“Yup, skunk piss everywhere.”
The Indian helps me into his beat-up pickup truck and drives me back to the shooting range.
“Do you have clean clothes?” he asks me.
I nod yes.
In the Indian’s bathroom I stare back at the reflection in the mirror trying to figure out who this new person is looking back at me. My face is much skinnier than I remember, making my eyes appear larger. There is duct tape tangled in my hair. I smile; not sure why, but I smile. I break out in a quiet laugh. I look a goddamn mess. I’m filled with adrenaline – I feel powerful, all because I survived, I guess. I cheated death today. How many people can say that? Few. I’m excited to be alive for once and to continue my journey finding my father. I can’t help but think if I find my father, he’ll also be able to help me figure out who would want my mother dead. I undress and shower, all the time thinking about what I can offer the Indian and the White Man. Money; I have little right now. I could offer my bookkeeping services to repay the debt to them for saving my life – or should I be so eager to offer? Playing the victim sometimes works; they were trying to rape and kill me, yeah, that’s it.
I’ve never felt so satisfied to shower in all my life. I feel better, except for the hunger pains. I approach the kitchen where I see fresh biscuits sitting in the middle of the table. My mouth waters.
“Sit,” the Indian motions me to a chair. He returns with a steamy bowl of chicken soup.
We sit in silence eating. I eat more than my share of food and drink two cups of coffee before I speak.
“Those men would have killed me. Thank you for saving me.”
“I know.”
He cleans off the table and starts the dishes, while I sit chain smoking cigarettes. I watch his back muscles rotate with every hand movement from washing each dish. I wonder if this was his first time killing. I mean, they own a gun shooting range. I can only guess the amount of acreage they own, if they own the gun range and the motel. They could own the entire mountain. Both the White Man and the Indian seemed to instinctively know how to clean up the murders of my kidnappers. They had to have done this before. I feel great pressure on my chest, a panic attack approaching. My debt to these crazy mountain men. I can never repay them.
The door opens, breaking my train of thought and pausing my panic attack, like someone turned down the loud music at my panic attack party. It’s the White Man. He hangs his hat and coat near the door and leans his rifle against the door before sitting at the table. The Indian grabs three glasses and an unmarked bottle of caramel colored liquid. He pours three glasses and pushes one towards each of us, keeping one for himself.
“Let’s toast to new friends, old friends and phony friends,” the White Man says.
I go along with the toast and wait for someone to speak because I don’t know what to say.
The White Man pushes back his chair and leans his body on the table, his elbow propped on the table, holding the half-drunk glass of liquor.
“Explain to us why you brought all this trouble to our mountain?” he asks.
“Honestly, I saw no one following me and I don’t know those guys.”
“Try again.”
I need more time to think; I can’t tell them the truth, they won’t believe me – they won’t believe it. The mess I’m in sounds so fake, like a movie scene, but if I don’t tell them some truth, I may not walk out that door.
“I was on my way to find my father. I’m in trouble and I think he’s the only one who can save me. This was all a stupid, stupid fucking mistake. I should have never tried to find him.”
“Who knows you came here ... besides maybe your father?”
“No one.”
“What’s your father’s name,” the Indian asks.
“Jimmy Coonan.”
“Bullshit!” the White Man chimes in.
The Indian raises his hand for the White Man to stop talking.
“You are free to leave; return in two weeks with $20,000 in cash,” he demands.
I don’t even blink, just nod my head yes. They both stand up and I walk to the door, all the time thinking I won’t make it out alive.
“Hey!” the White Man yells.
My heart is in my throat, pounding so hard I can’t speak. I don’t want to turn around and face the gun pointed at me. I prefer to be shot in the back.
“Yes,” I say without turning around.
“Drive safe.”
I drive for an hour before stopping to use the restroom, get gas, cigarettes and rolling papers. I sit on a picnic table to smoke a joint and check my phone messages. I have over fifty voicemails. I don’t bother listening to them before deleting them all. I forgot about one major detail in my planned trip. I asked Mr. Alterman to reach out to Johnny if he doesn’t hear from me in a few days.
I call Johnny’s phone.
He picks up after one ring.
“AVA, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”
“I’m at a rest area in New Hampshire. Look, I’m okay, my phone went dead, and I had to find another charger. I’m sorry if I worried you.”
“Where are you? You’re a pissy liar, you know that. I’m you’re okay. I’ll meet you. Text me the address.”
“Okay.”
I roll a series of joints and smoke another while waiting for Johnny. I’m tired and can’t be bothered to drive anymore. I search the internet for nearby hotels. There’s a hotel about twenty minutes from the rest area, just over the border into Massachusetts. I text Paul the information, asking him to book a room for one night. If he doesn’t respond in time, I’ll have Johnny pay.
Just when I almost lose my patience
and leave, I see a black Mustang pull up. Johnny’s driving and there’s a muscular young man in the passenger seat. He looks disgusted to see me. I wonder what Johnny’s told him about me. Johnny gets out and his passenger heads into the store, not acknowledging me at all.
I roll down the window to talk to Johnny. He stops me by opening the door and pulls me out of my car.
He presses his body against me, grabs my face and kisses me hard. His lips are soft and cold. I have missed him, and I question why I didn’t just tell him where I was going.
Johnny holds me until his passenger interrupts, climbing into the driver seat of Johnny’s car. He rolls down the passenger window and leans over.
“Johnny, I’ll see you back in Boston.”
Johnny leans into the window and whispers; I can’t hear what he says. He drives off, squealing the car tires as he exits the parking lot.
“What the hell happened to your nose?”
“I slipped on some ice.”
Johnny takes a closer look at my nose. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“A friend.”
I leave it at that; I can tell Johnny isn’t interested in explaining who his friend is. We drive to the hotel in silence. He doesn’t ask where we are going, and when we get to the hotel, he doesn’t question it.
I check my phone to see if Paul has responded. He has – our reservation is confirmed and paid.
As soon as we get into the room, he pushes me onto the bed, undoes my pants and pulls them down around my shoes. He kisses my stomach, moving up under my shirt. I lean up to unhook my bra. To my surprise, he goes down on me. He has never done this for me before. It feels amazing; I can’t remember the last time I was pleasured. I let my worries melt away and put my mind at ease. He lets me come and doesn’t stop pleasuring me. It’s so sensitive I push his head away. Johnny love’s teasing me during sex, and I wonder if this is how he is with Casey. The thought of her never bothers me, but I do think of how he pleasures her. She will keep Johnny no matter what he does, and he will never leave her side. It will be me who decides when we are done. Johnny and I both agree that this is temporary.