"Sharon here?" she asked, her voice conveying her nervousness.
None of the men answered, only stared at her. It was apparent their goal was to make her uncomfortable. They were succeeding.
Debbie glanced at one of the women. The woman didn't say anything but cut her eyes toward the trailer. Debbie didn't acknowledge the clue but left the table. The steps to the trailer were a wobbly pile of cinderblocks. They swayed beneath her feet as she climbed. She imagined these would be a challenge to someone in an impaired state of mind.
She banged on the screen door with her fist. There was no answer. She glanced back at the table and found the group still watching her. Anxious to escape their gaze she pulled open the screen door and went on inside uninvited.
“Sharon?" she called. "Sharon?"
No one answered but she heard noises coming from the bedroom. Debbie looked around. The living room had rebel flags for curtains and little light made it inside. It had the same layout as her own trailer, like most singlewides did. Between the living room and the kitchen was a bar covered with two-liter soda bottles. What looked like the aftermath of a children’s birthday party was actually a collection of “shake and bake” meth labs. It was a hillbilly tweaker’s version of a home office.
She went through the kitchen and started down a dark hallway. It wasn't more than a couple of steps and then she was at the closed door. She dropped her hand to the plastic knob, then decided she better knock again. She tapped on the door.
“Sharon!" she hissed.
She thought she could hear mumbling inside, low voices. Somebody was definitely in there. Debbie reached down and rattled the knob. It was locked. She was standing there with her hand on the knob, trying to decide her next move when the door was jerked violently open.
She was startled and jumped back. There was a hulking shadow in front of her. A foul smell curled her nose. It was body odor, mildew, and some sort of chemical smell.
"What the hell you want?" a voice boomed.
She recognized that voice as belonging to Johnny, another man Paul owed money to. Of all the people she could have run into, he was the worst. He was big, dumb, and mean. There was more than one rumor of him killing men who owed him money. Debbie had no doubt they were true.
Debbie hated Paul for sending her off to do stuff like this. If he was the one always coming up with these ideas, then he needed to be the one carrying them out. It was always her though, like she was his gopher. One day she was going to find a new man and leave him in the dust. He’d be sorry then.
"Is Sharon in there?" She tried but couldn’t see past the large man.
Johnny threw the door the rest of the way open and stepped aside. The tiny bedroom was a jumble of trash, dirty clothes, and sheets. Light the color of urine seeped in through the dingy windows. She could make out Sharon sitting in the bed melting a pill in a bent spoon.
"Can I talk to you second?" Debbie asked.
Sharon shrugged as if it made not one bit of difference to her. Debbie stepped into the room, having to brush against Johnny to get past him. He made no effort to give an inch, purposely wanting to make her uncomfortable. Just like the men outside, his only goal seemed to be to instill fear in her. Once past him she went to sit down on the bed.
"Whoa, whoa! Don't shake the bed!” Sharon said, her voice an almost musical slurring.
Debbie sat down gingerly, taking care to make certain that Sharon didn't spill any of her precious chemicals.
"What the fuck do you want, girlfriend? What are you doing here?" Sharon asked. She wasn’t angry. She just seemed strung-out. "You after dope? I ain’t sure I'm selling anymore dope. I might need every bit I got."
“I saw those pop bottles in the living room," Debbie said. "I know you’re making the stuff. I don't know what you're worried about. You can always make more."
"I still have to have ingredients. Can’t make it if I can’t get the ingredients," Sharon replied. "I only make that stuff to trade for pain pills anyway. Meth makes me jittery. Don’t need it, don’t want it."
"Heck, I'll do about anything I can lay my hands on," Debbie said. She was relaxing and trying to be conversational.
"I always knew that about you," Johnny said. "Your favorite drug is other people's drugs."
Debbie had almost forgotten he was in the room. She cut him an angry look.
"So why you here?" Sharon asked. “Never did say.”
Debbie turned on her sweetest, friendliest girlfriend demeanor. She needed to sell this. Paul would be pissed if she didn’t. "Paul and I got this sweet deal going on. We found a good place to live and we want to see if you might want to come stay with us."
The whole time she was saying this, Debbie was aware of how lame it sounded. There was no way to say it and the obvious meaning not be clear. She might as well have said they were out of drugs and wanted her to come over and bring her drugs. Paul had said as much. It sounded reasonable when they were talking about it in the living room of the Hardwicks’ house. Now it just sounded stupid. She was embarrassed she'd even said it but it was too late. It was out there.
Johnny laughed. "Look who's all caring and shit now. Looking to be your best friend and take care of you. Just as long as you bring your drugs with you."
Sharon nodded, an amused look on her face.
"Who's been taking care of you, girl?" Johnny asked.
"You have," Sharon said.
"Who's been feeding you?" he asked.
"You have."
"Who's been running around finding your pain pills? Who's been going out and digging up the stuff you need to cook your meth?"
"You have," Sharon replied.
Johnny turned on Debbie. "So ain’t nobody here needs your charity. Ain’t nobody buying what you’re selling. I know that piece of crap boyfriend of yours put you up to this, so you go back and tell him the next time he has some stupid idea like this he better think twice about it."
Ignoring Johnny, Debbie turned her back to him and leaned closer to Sharon. "This place has solar power. The lights are working and the water is running. They have air-conditioning, movies, and cold beer in the fridge."
"Where is this?" Johnny asked, obviously listening in.
"None of your business," Debbie said, a frustrated lilt in her voice that made her sound like a fourth-grader.
"Where she goes, I go. If you're taking her, you’re taking me. Simple as that," Johnny said. He squared off to her and stuck his chest out. If he was trying to intimidate her, it was working. She was wishing she was anywhere but here.
Debbie turned her back on Johnny again. She lowered her voice. "Look, this offer is just for you. I can’t invite him. But if you want to come, the offer is open."
"Where the hell are you even talking about? I ain’t never heard of any place like that around here. How they got the lights on?"
Debbie leaned closer, trying to keep her voice even lower. “My mom is housesitting. It's for the Hardwicks. My mom says the man is a writer and has a lot of money. He’s got all kinds of crazy stuff." She went on to describe the location and Sharon nodded, understanding now where it was that they were talking about.
“I’ll think about it,” Sharon said.
Sharon sucked the drug into the syringe and began working to raise a vein on her arm. Debbie called the woman's name, trying to reengage her, but only received a cold, impassive stare. Sharon looked like a coyote that had already eaten her fill and was observing while the other coyotes did the same. Debbie felt a deep chill when it dawned upon her that she had no friends here. There was no one here who cared if she lived or died. In fact, there were probably more who would prefer her dead. Perhaps even a few who would like to do the honors.
Realizing she’d overplayed her hand, Debbie stood to go. She wanted to be anywhere but there. "Well, honey, I'll just be going. Forget I said anything. You all take care of yourselves and stay safe."
Debbie got to the door and Johnny stood there in front of her, his body filling t
he opening. She was about a foot and a half shorter than him and he stared down at her. She was too terrified to ask him to move, afraid she could not control her voice. After staring at her for a while, something seemed to click in Johnny's head and he decided to let her pass. Debbie rushed past him before he could change his mind. She had been in some bad situations before because of the company she kept but she suddenly felt more endangered than she'd ever felt in her life. Coming here had been a bad idea. She should have turned around and zipped off when she saw the crowd outside. This had been a dumb move.
It was all she could do not to run as she stepped through the kitchen, the living room, and out the front door. She walked carefully down the shaky block steps to the table of people in the yard still sitting there. They studied her as she came out. She found the gesture to be both menacing and invasive and quickly walked to the dirt bike.
Each step closer to the bike eased her anxiety. She thought she was home free until she heard the voice from behind her.
"Hey, why don’t you come back here and play with us?" Apparently seeing her flee had triggered their predatory instinct. They tell you when confronted by a bear to never turn your back and run. That was exactly what she’d just done.
She froze for a moment, then resumed walking even faster. It was one of the men that Paul owed money to. She had an idea that if she went back there she would be the one losing, perhaps in more ways than one.
Two of the men began walking toward her. She jumped on the dirt bike and hit the starter button. The starter whirred but the bike didn't start. A wave of anxiety nearly crushed her. She couldn’t breathe. Then she remembered to turn the ignition on. She tried the starter again and the bike roared to life.
The men were nearly to her when she popped the clutch to speed off. She did it too fast, and the bike stalled.
"Shit!"
She repeated the process as fast as she could, the bike starting right up. The men were nearly upon her. They were all smiles. Inviting. Welcoming.
She hit the throttle and eased out on the clutch this time. The bike started rolling and she looked back over her shoulder. The two men had stopped and were standing in the road watching her. One of them waved.
Relieved, she turned back to the road ahead of her, screaming when she saw Johnny standing in the middle of the road with the shotgun raised. She accelerated and leaned the bike, determined to speed around him. She was not fast enough.
Johnny reversed the shotgun and swung it like a bat. The stock caught Debbie in the side of the head, the impact knocking her from the motorcycle. She rolled in the dirt and came to a stop, her arms flailing around her. Coated in dust, she looked like a piece of chicken fried steak about to be lowered into the frying pan.
She tried to sit up and keep running but nothing worked right. She couldn’t stand, she couldn’t crawl. She fell over and the world spun. The last sight she ever saw was Johnny standing over her with the shotgun, a grin cracking his face. She closed her eyes.
Johnny turned to the people in the yard. "Boys, I think we got us a new place to live."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Hardwick Farm
Teresa did not proceed down the escape tunnel until she heard Blake latch the hatch behind her. Only then did she click on her headlamp and start crawling down the drain pipe. It was not roomy by any means but neither was it cramped. She could crawl on her hands and knees without feeling claustrophobic.
That it was of a comfortable size did not exactly mean it was a painless process. The corrugated surface of the drainpipe was bruising her knees, and the pain from her incision was like a hot poker twisting around her insides. She was also deathly terrified of snakes and concerned that some may have found their way inside, but she hadn’t found any so far. Robert had assured her that there was no way snakes could get into the drainpipe but snakes always found a way to get where they wanted to go. Still, the drainpipe did appear to be fairly well sealed. There was no standing water and she couldn’t see any leaking dirt anywhere.
Hoping that Robert was correct in his assurances, she crawled forward, fully aware that a black snake in a black drainpipe would probably be invisible until she was right on it. After crawling for what she thought may have been around one hundred feet she reached the end of the drainpipe. Here the pipe came to a dead end and turned ninety-degrees straight up.
Teresa shifted her feet beneath her and stood slowly. It was a painful process. Her back and abdominal muscles started to cramp. She was not quite standing erect when her upraised hands hit a piece of plywood that covered the top of the pipe. She pressed on it and it didn't budge. She felt a moment of panic, wondering if perhaps someone had parked the lawnmower on top of it. Maybe somebody had forgotten and accidentally nailed the boards down?
She pounded on it with the palms of her hands. She felt it budge and let out a sigh of relief. With her cramping muscles, going back through the tunnel would be an even more painful ordeal. She pushed up as hard as she could, slid the plywood out of the way, and popped her head out of the drainpipe. Her headlamp revealed the inside of the storage building, just as she’d been assured. She was standing inside a 4x4 square in the floor where a piece of plywood had been just a moment ago.
She could see where compacted dirt and grime had glued the square of plywood in place, which had caused the initial difficulty with breaking the plywood loose. When she stood straight up, the floor was level with her chest. Under normal circumstances she would have moved to one corner of the square opening and boosted herself out. In her current condition that was not as easy as it sounded.
Indeed, getting herself out of the hole required several minutes of pushing, pulling, and kicking. There was also a fair amount of groaning and praying. When she was finally out, Teresa lay back on the nasty floor of the storage building. She needed a moment to let the muscle spasms subside and the pain ease.
Lying on that dirty floor was something she never would have done in everyday life, but they were far, far away from everyday life anymore. If there was any doubt of that, all she had to do was look down at her outfit she wore and the weapons she carried. When she was able to stand, she slid the plywood back in place. She did not want anyone discovering this access tunnel, nor did she want to accidentally back into the hole in the dark building. She wasn’t sure she could get herself out again if that happened.
At the far end of the building was a pair of French doors, not as glamorous as it sounded. It was simply a pair of windowless white steel doors that opened out to create an opening large enough to drive a lawnmower in. Teresa unlocked the handle on one of the doors and cracked it open.
She had a view of the house now. She could see the driveway and the parking area, the backyard, and part of the side yard. When she studied the house and the back porch she saw a figure in a rocking chair. It took a moment for her to realize it was Paul, sitting there in a rocking chair, drinking a cold beer from her refrigerator.
Teresa was immediately furious. The nerve. Invading her home, stealing her medication, and now drinking what may have been the last cold beer in thirty miles.
Teresa had enjoyed long-range shooting with her husband. She particularly enjoyed shooting his Remington 700 in 6.5 Creedmor. What she wouldn't give to have that rifle in her hands at that moment. Whatever pain the recoil caused her would be worth it. At this distance, with that scoped rifle, she could have chosen which retina to put the bullet through. Either one would do.
With the weapons she carried, she did not have many options. The Glock would hit at that distance but she hadn’t trained for it. There was no assurance of a hit and it would give away her position. She contemplated it though. She was considering her next option when she heard what sounded like a scream come from the direction of the barn. It died as quickly as it started and she wondered for a moment if she’d imagined it.
She thought of Mrs. Brown. Did he have her tied up down there? He seemed like the type. Was she dying? Injured?
Though the thought of Mrs. Brown injured and in pain disturbed Teresa, she was pleased that the sound made Paul move from the porch. He stood there for a moment with his head cocked, his posture clearly demonstrating how upset he was that someone had disturbed him when he was enjoying one of the last cold beers in thirty miles.
He tipped the bottle up and drained it. To her horror, he shattered the empty against the foundation of the house. Teresa was enraged. It was almost enough to make her charge from her hiding place and drop him on the spot. She had to remind herself that she was not combat-ready. She needed to choose her battles carefully because she may only have one shot.
After Paul lit a cigarette, he reached into his waistband and retrieved the same revolver he’d threatened Teresa with earlier. He scanned his surroundings again then trudged off toward the barn.
When he was no longer close enough to see her, Teresa slipped out the door of the shed and carefully closed it back. She paused, letting Paul put more distance between the two of them. She could not move as effectively as she’d like, still very sore and limping. The climb through the drainpipe made her realize that she may have the spirit for the fight but her body was lagging behind. Still, she had to know where he was going, where the scream came from. She did her best to pursue Paul, moving from one concealed position to the next.
Chapter Thirty
The Hardwick Farm
Grace had no idea she’d screamed at the sight of Mrs. Brown coming toward her in the dark. She was focused on what she should do with the older lady. The woman was in no condition for Grace to drag her into a fight. She decided all she could do at the moment was make Mrs. Brown comfortable while she went and checked on her family. She stood up and extended a hand to Mrs. Brown.
"Come on. Let's find you a comfortable place to sit and I'll be back for you in a few minutes."
Grace extended her hands to Mrs. Brown with the intention of helping her to her feet but the older lady didn’t respond. She mumbled something that Grace couldn’t understand. She pointed to the arm she cradled and made a sound that Grace interpreted as broken. Grace realized that Mrs. Brown’s injuries must be even more serious than they appeared. She went around behind the older lady and slipped her hands beneath Mrs. Brown's armpits.
Grace Under Fire: Book Two In The Locker Nine Series Page 18
