by A B Whelan
Living with my aunt wasn’t all bad. Once in a while, a cool guy shacking up with us would teach me how to be a man instead of cracking down on me for not emptying the dishwasher. Watching the 1980s hit movie Stand by Me was bonding time with one role model. We would drink beer and smoke cigarettes like the kids in the film and I learned to cuss like a sailor. As early as fourth grade, I was giving lessons to my fellow students on the most colorful adult language that would leave them in awe.
Those laid-backed dudes never lasted long in a relationship with my aunt. She liked them tough and unpredictable. Structure, quiet, and safety made her restless. Too much of that inevitably led to glass breaking and shoes flying.
As I stand in front of the prisoner-release desk, I notice my neck muscles tightening. All that was a lifetime ago. I’m twenty-five now and too old to dwell on the past. What happened, happened and “it is what it is,” as one of my aunt’s wise boyfriends used to say. I’m certainly not the first, or last, kid to suffer at the hands of the very people who are supposed to love and protect us.
I scratch the back of my head as I sign for my possessions. Seventy-eight dollars in a faded leather wallet, a lighter, and an iPhone with a cracked screen. The state was kind enough to give me some petty cash, presumably sufficient to buy a bus ticket out of here.
The sliding doors open behind me. Dry, hot air pushes into the room. I steal a whiff of the outside dust and smog before the aggressive air-conditioning unit above the door spewing cold air to keep the obese woman at the desk comfortable halts the scent of freedom. Even the air makes a point to keep us prisoners isolated.
I was sentenced for twelve months to the Larry P. Smith Correctional Facility in Banning, California and required to pay a two thousand dollar fine. I didn’t have that kind of money. By the time I turned eighteen, my aunt had pissed away every last cent of my inheritance. I was shy of my sixteenth birthday when we had our last big fight over grades and girls and she kicked me out of the house. If my girlfriend’s family hadn’t taken me in, I would have been on the streets. Poor bastards, the Sotos, like they needed another hungry mouth to feed.
Once my emancipation was finalized, I started working at a local ranch supply-and-feed store to earn my keep. The money was enough to pay rent for my small, dingy room and rice-and-bean dinners. I had no right to complain because, without the Soto family, I would have been one of those homeless dudes with calluses on their feet and hands layered with grime, pushing around a shopping cart with all my earthly possessions in a plastic bag, stuttering to myself.
For the most part, the Sotos were a decent family; except when the old man, Juan, started to drink. Then all hell typically broke loose. When the storm began to brew, I took off to a nearby abandoned office building to buy drugs from the homeless occupants. It was a three-story concrete frame without walls and windows filled with broken dreams and bad life choices. You had to wade through a sea of tall, dry weeds that scraped your legs bloody to get inside. The grounds around the building had large, random holes and was littered with leftover building materials. At least that dangerous landscape kept the cops away most of the time.
I can’t precisely recall when my drug addiction began, but in hindsight, I see that I was heading in that direction soon after my parents left me alone and unprotected in this wretched world.
My father died in front of me, and I let it happen. It was a sizzling hot July afternoon in Encinitas, where we were cooling ourselves at Moonlight Beach. I was trying out my new bodyboard, my father keeping an eye on me nearby when he started gasping for air. He had asthma. One second he was riding the waves next to me, the next he panicked and his body seized up. I watched as the powerful frothy waves of the Pacific Ocean swallowed him up, like some kind of sacrifice to Poseidon. I was right there next to him, but I couldn’t find him. I was only six. An age I used as an excuse for years for not saving my father. I still see the look of fright in his eyes in my dreams: “Help me!” they screamed.
Two years later, my mother died of lung cancer. She was a heavy smoker who tried to hide her addiction from us; unsuccessfully, I may add, since an ever-apparent cloud of smoke surrounded her like an invisible bubble. No amount of chewing gum or Listerine strips could mask the rancid smell.
But I loved her. I loved both of them. As an only child, I was bathed in constant attention. If I wanted to try a sport, I only had to snap my fingers. If I craved something, my mother would rush down to the nearest grocery store to get it for me. The walls in our kitchen were covered with my artwork from school, and every participation award I earned was displayed in the living room in a glass vitrine. I was the light of their eyes. I was their everything.
My mother had passed away in a hospice room, alone and scared. I was asleep at home with my babysitter that night. I never forgave myself for not being there with her. Like I needed another reason to brand myself a failure.
After the funeral, my life fell apart. Whenever I lashed out, my aunt tamed my anger with Adderall or Tylenol. By the age of twelve, I was taking painkillers daily, and an extra dose whenever my head hurt, or I felt sad and depressed. I started smoking weed in middle school. In eighth grade, I broke the school record for most suspensions. After that, I never stayed in a town long enough to build a reputation. Courtesy of the foster-family system, I attended three different middle schools.
In high school, drugs were easy to get. Most of my friends had parents who were doped up on anti-depressants or painkillers and who swallowed uppers and downers like they were candy to keep their shit together.
The only way I managed to graduate from high school was by attending summer school, where I was practically pushed through the system.
Life almost worked out for me at age sixteen when I was placed with the Soto family. They genuinely took care of me. I had a roof over my head, food in my belly, and money to burn.
Yet fate had other plans for me.
A woman, ten years my senior, walked into the feed store I worked at on a beautiful sunny morning and offered to buy me dinner for my help. At IHOP, she talked business and flashed a wad of cash. I took it. Two months later, I was the boy-toy to three other friends of hers too. Rich bitches with fat egoistical husbands who had ridiculous money from either working in finance, horse racing, drugs, or human trafficking.
I was only twenty years old when I met her. It took me four years to break free. She wasn’t going to let go of her cash cow without a fight. In a heated argument, I punched her in the face and broke her jaw. She played the innocent victim in court, and the judge and jury fell for her act. I was a good-for-nothing hooligan, an orphan, and a destitute criminal. The bitch stole eight more months of my life, that might have been twelve, if not for my early release from prison.
Every time I recall my mistakes of the past ten years, I find myself enveloped in an uncontrollable rage. If I do something stupid again, I could be back in this shithole. I’d do anything to stay out. For eight months, the only colors I saw were cream, blue, and orange, and my most stimulating conversation was about the best brand of tobacco to chew. I needed fresh air and new friends.
As I pocket my stuff and head out, one guard eyes me with suspicion. “You’ll be back in less than a year,” he says. “I bet on it.”
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Enjoy your day, young man,” another stern-faced guard says. “Treat those ladies nice now, ya hear?”
I don’t respond because I don’t want to waste another minute of my life arguing with these pricks. Some women don’t want to be treated nicely. He knows it, and I know it, but neither of us will say it.
I step outside into a pale-blue and cloudless, sweltering July afternoon and pull the pack of letters from my back pocket. I find Jenna’s phone number on a handwritten note. I grab my phone. It’s dead. I don’t know why I expected the guards to return my phone fully charged.
The door opens behind me. “Do you need to call for a ride?”
I refuse to ask fo
r a favor from a man who enjoys breaking down people’s pride and humanity.
“I’m good, man,” I say, and start walking toward the bus stop.
I ride the bus for almost half an hour to the Walmart Supercenter, where I buy a charger, a bag of chips, and a bottle of real Coke from Mexico.
Once my phone hits ten percent, I call Jenna. She is a fine young woman, who responded to my ad in a Christian paper where I was looking for a soulmate. We’ve been exchanging letters for five months now. The similarities in our lives connected us. She, like myself, suffered at the hands of others—in her case, her husband’s brutality.
“Hey, Boo, what’s going on? You earned special phone privileges or something?” she woos on the other end of the line.
“I’m out,” I say flatly.
While I was in prison, Jenna had shown up for two conjugal visits. I tasted her lips and inhaled the sweet scent of her skin and hair. I was looking forward to a new life with her but had hoped for a few days to gather myself first. But then again, I could only stretch fifty bucks too far. I need money and friends.
She screams, and I pull the phone away from my ear. “I can’t believe it. You’re out?”
“Yep. I’m out for good.”
“Oh, my gosh! I can’t believe it!”
“Hey, Jenna. I hate to bother you with this, but I need a place to crash for a bit.”
“Of course! Um, where are you now?”
“Sitting on a bench in front of Walmart.”
“Okay, I’m gonna get you in ten—no, more like thirty minutes. Don’t move, okay? I’ll help you get sorted out, my love.”
An hour later, I drop onto a bed in a room at America’s Best Value Inn for forty-three dollars a night. The motel room oddly resembles the prison. On a rectangular building a row of blue doors with gray windows breaking up the uniformity of the cream-colored walls.
My girl was wearing a flimsy orange sundress, and, once alone, I didn’t have to do much to turn her on. She was easily pleased. Her excitement was contagious, and I felt my dark mood lighten. I pulled her onto me and unleashed a year’s worth of caged passion onto her body.
Drenched in hot sweat, we lie on our backs watching America’s Got Talent. The voice of Sharon Osbourne irritates me. First, I don’t know why then, I realize she reminds me of my aunt.
Switching the channel isn’t an option. Jenna is addicted to this show, and I want to make her happy. I pretend to care about the future of those egotistical, attention-seeking losers singing and dancing on national television because she paid for my room. Also, she is the only person that cares about me for the moment. I’ve never had a relationship I didn’t screw up. So this time, I want it to be different.
When the show is over, Jenna turns to me and kisses my lips. “You know we could have this every day of our lives,” she says, peppering my lips with more kisses.
I nod. It does sound good, but I can’t allow myself to fall into a world of dreams again. I need to get back on my feet, find work, and rebuild my life.
She gently strokes my face and plays with my hair. “Would you like that? Have me for yourself every day? That’s all I dream about. You and me.”
I trace the mound of her breast with my finger. “I could get used to it, but what about Brad?”
She props herself up on an elbow and looks into my eyes. “He hurts me, you know? Since I’ve known you, I’ve refused to have sex with him. But he takes what he wants. When he wants it. He rapes me if I resist.”
I rub the heal of my hand against my forehead. I don’t need these images in my head right now. I’ve served eight months in a correctional facility for being hotheaded. If I slip again, I’m doomed.
“We can’t be together while he’s around, Boo.”
“Why … why don’t you divorce him?” I stammer. I can’t get involved, but rationality doesn’t stop my urge to beat that scum to a pulp for what he’s done to my girl.
Jenna sits up and pulls her knees to her chest. My reaction wasn’t what she was expecting from me.
“You know that’s not an option. Brad will never let me go. He’d rather see me dead than with someone else.” Her body closes up, and her voice drops an octave.
“Then what do you want me to do?” I ask, regretting it immediately. I can’t afford to give her what she wants because that ends with me back in prison. But it’s too late. The words slipped out, and she pops the question that will change my life forever.
“I need you to kill him for me—for us—Boo. I will help you.”
1
TODAY
SPECIAL AGENT VICKY COLLINS
On the morning of my interview at the FBI’s San Diego field office, I wake with a start, drenched in cold sweat, my head buzzing. I tuck my moist hands behind my head and stare into the darkness, enveloped in self-doubt over my decision. Doug is gently snoring next to me—the closest victim to suffer from my mental debate—but ever since I accepted Special Agent Tony Brestler’s offer to switch from the police force to the FBI, Doug has become emotionally absent. I needed to talk to someone, just to go over the pros and cons of my new career step one more time, but talking to Doug is as useful as talking to the wall.
Ten years ago, he was encouraging me to follow my dreams to protect and serve over starting a family, even if it meant a demanding schedule. “We are still young. There is so much to do and see in the world. Kids will anchor us down,” he would say. Now my demanding job is the fuel to every heated argument we have.
My parents didn’t share Doug’s view on the benefits of delaying our responsibilities as parents. My mother used to say that schools and our society focus so much on empowering our girls that we completely forget about our boys and that’s why nowadays most of them are such soft dicks; scared of commitment.
On my little sister’s graduation from the Fire Academy, my father stood rigid, his arms crossed, scratching his chin, as he switched his sight from me (a police officer), to my brother (a website designer) and to my sister in her uniform standing tall among men, and murmured, “This world had gone upside down.”
Now five years later, my brother still works on his computer from home, has a wife who has doubled in size since they had their first kid, and two boys to raise. My sister had become a fire captain in a department full of men. Her face has been all over the local news stations as the media glorified her chief for promoting a female firefighter. They aired little action videos of her running to the truck and pulling the hose, proving for all to see that women can do the same work that men do. What the news didn’t show was that the video crew had to shoot half a dozen clips before my sister could get the job done correctly. We still talk about that at every family dinner. Our dad never lets us hear the end of his complaints about why we were so eager to take a man’s job. For me, our career choices bind my sister and me together. We both broke up a sausage party at work.
When the alarm goes off, I fling the blanket off me violently enough to wake Doug. We’ve been dating for ten years, but still not married. Too busy.
He groans and covers his eyes against the brightness of the lamp. “Are you serious?”
“I have to get ready for the interview!” I yell from the bathroom.
He pulls the cover over his head, complaining some more.
Wrapped in a towel, I lay out three carefully selected outfits based on an online image search I’ve done about female FBI agents.
Doug shakes his head with a mocking smile and gets out of bed.
The pantsuit would make me look very official. The black leather jacket too cool. So, I go with the black slack, white shirt—top three buttons left undone—and a dark-gray jacket.
Before I manage to snatch the right outfit and get dressed, Doug jumps onto the bed, a vape extended in his hand toward me.
“You’re gonna mess up my clothes, ass,” I frown, pulling the pants from underneath him.
“Here, take a whiff. Helps you calm your nerves.”
“Are you out of
your mind? You know where I’m going, right?”
“I don’t think they will test you on the first day.”
“No, thank you. I’m calm.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He makes a face, gets back to his feet, and disappears into the kitchen. I take a deep breath and follow him to apologize. It’s my big day, yet he’s trying to sidetrack me with weed, but somehow, I end up being in the wrong.
I kiss him and say sorry.
He endures my kiss but doesn’t reciprocate. “It’s okay. I just wanted to help.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the car, driving to meet the recruiter, Special Agent Gabriel Rose, angry, frustrated, and very, very disappointed.
2
I sit in a chair across the table from Agent Rose, a harassing question clouding my mind. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing here?” But I won’t ask him that of course. Instead, I sit with my back straight as my mother taught me, making eye contact as I smile.
He seems to be my age, thirty-five-ish. Dark suit and tie. Dark complexions, Greek or Italian genes perhaps. When he smiles at me, his downward-cast eyes shrink, and his cheekbones rise higher. He is a kind of man that would make Doug mad if he found out we spent time together in a room alone, though Rose behaves very professionally, cold even. I don’t have the slightest impression that he finds me attractive.
Agent Rose looks down at the questionnaire, a pen pinned between his fingers ending in clean, manicured nails. “Let’s go over a couple of things to verify your eligibility, then we can start on the paperwork,” he says, pressing the tip of the pen into the paper. “You are thirty-four years old, correct?”
