by Meg Gardiner
‘‘We seen you there, talking with your partner.’’ He stalked in a circle.
‘‘If you mean Sinsa Jimson, you’re—’’
‘‘You were figuring how to hose us up the ass.’’ Without warning he changed direction and slapped me hard across the face.
My head snapped sideways. He slapped me back the other way and my vision fireworked white. The pain caught up with the shock and drove my thoughts away to the edge.
Murphy said, ‘‘Jesus, chill down.’’
But Merlin had sprung a valve. ‘‘We’re screwed. So screwed.’’
He squatted down in front of me, grabbed me by the hair, and shoved me facedown into the puddle.
Straight through cold brown water and down into the mud and pebbles at the bottom. Eyes, nose, mouth shoved under. Panic hit me.
He yanked me up by the hair. ‘‘Screwed. ’Cause of you.’’
Air. I inhaled, choked, coughed. ‘‘No. I’ll—’’
He shoved my face back down. I heard a splash this time before my nose and mouth hit the mud and sank in.
My right arm was free. I swung wildly and tried to lever myself up, but Merlin had plenty more leverage to keep me under, and Murphy was on my back. I clawed my fingers into the water by my mouth, into the mud, trying to scoop it away. It was too deep. I grabbed dirt and pebbles into my hand and flung them blindly, trying to hit Merlin. My lungs burned. I grabbed again, fingers catching on my key ring. I closed my fist around it and swung, trying to stab him with a key, something.
They were too strong. I was drowning in an inch of water. Jesus Christ, it hurt.
Merlin’s hand jerked off my head.
I pulled my face out of the puddle and gulped air. Mud was caked in my nose and mouth. I spit it out, coughing. Had I hurt him? I blinked, tossing my head back and forth to clear the mud from my eyes, and saw him sitting on his butt in front of me. I breathed, frantically.
Merlin’s shoulders were chugging up and down. His face was red. Maybe I got him in the nuts.
Murphy was pointing at him. ‘‘Not that way.’’
No, I hadn’t hurt Merlin—Murphy had knocked him down. Murphy’s hand settled on the back of my neck. It was hot, and the size of a catcher’s mitt.
He leaned close to my ear. ‘‘I’m going to give you a choice.’’
In dreams, I try to run but my legs stick, as if the air is glue. At that moment the nightmare broke the bounds of sleep. I couldn’t make my limbs move. Murphy leaned close to my face. He had two drumsticks clenched in his hand.
‘‘How do you want it?’’ he said.
This was no dream. I fought.
I kicked, I thrashed, I bucked my head back. Murphy said, ‘‘Hold her down.’’ Merlin got to his haunches and pinned me by the shoulders. Murphy unzipped my dress. Cool air pricked my skin, and I felt Murphy’s clammy hand running up and down my back.
He lay on top of me. I sounded like an animal, groaning and thrashing beneath him. The hand with the drumsticks slid down my ribs and past my thigh and rustled beneath the fabric of my skirt. I screamed through my teeth.
His mouth touched my ear. ‘‘You fucked us, we fuck you. How do you want it?’’
His hand climbed up my thigh under the skirt. The drumsticks traced a line along my leg. I clawed the dirt, trying to pull out from under him with my fingernails alone, but he covered me like a flesh blanket.
I squeezed the words through my teeth. ‘‘The money. I’ll get it.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The bank. I’ll take you.’’
His mustache dragged across the back of my neck. His lips were moist. ‘‘That’s not your choice.’’
The drumsticks rode along my skin. Murphy grunted. His breath was damp on my neck, and his crotch was hard.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Weakness won’t win.
I needed time. We were by the side of a road, for God’s sake. A car had to come by soon. Shit, in this Montecito glen where privacy and isolation went for seven frickin’ figures. But if I could stay alive, somebody would come along.
But not before he raped me with the drumsticks. They stroked the edge of my panties. Don’t cry.
One chance, that was all I had. That they feared Toby more than anything else.
‘‘Your choice,’’ I said.
‘‘What?’’
My mouth was full of mud. I spit. ‘‘We get the money, or not. Not makes Toby mad.’’
Murphy laughed. He sounded incredulous. ‘‘You don’t get to give out the choices.’’
‘‘Yes. We get the money. We take it to Toby. We finish this. Or he’ll be on all our backs. Bad.’’
Merlin stopped pacing. Murphy lay still. But he was hard, and his hand was between my legs.
‘‘Let me get it,’’ I said.
They seemed to be thinking about it.
‘‘Think. If you . . .’’ My voice faltered.
Don’t say rape. Don’t say beat. Don’t say kill. Don’t give them ideas.
‘‘If you mess me up then I can’t get the money, and he’ll be mad at you. It’ll be your fault.’’
I let my face sink to the ground. My ears were ringing. Their voices ping-ponged, whining. They were talking about it. So much noise, like a drill in my head.
Murphy shifted on my back. ‘‘Which bank?’’
Think of one. ‘‘Wells Fargo. Downtown.’’
Merlin’s feet scuffled near my head. I was drooling. Just don’t cry.
‘‘It won’t work,’’ he said. ‘‘If she goes in looking like this, they call the cops. We’re hosed.’’
‘‘And whose fault is that?’’ Murphy said.
‘‘If we go in with her, we’re on film. We wait outside, she calls the manager,’’ Merlin said. ‘‘She’s shining us on.’’
‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘We end this. Today.’’
Murphy inched the drumsticks under the lace and ripped my panties. I squeezed my eyes shut.
‘‘Prove it. How do we know the money’s there?’’ he said.
I needed something tangible, any kind of proof. My keys were in my hand. I held them up. ‘‘Safe-deposit key.’’
It was my little bike lock key, mixed in with the rest, but it looked odd enough that it just might convince them.
Merlin yanked the key ring from my hand. ‘‘It’s been in a safe-deposit box the whole time?’’
‘‘Put it there this morning.’’
‘‘What’s the number?’’
‘‘I’m not telling you.’’
Murphy inched the drumsticks between my legs. Don’t cry. Don’t.
‘‘We all go together,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m not an idiot.’’
Merlin jangled the keys in his hand. ‘‘I don’t know.’’
Murphy thought about it. ‘‘Yeah. We do it.’’
Don’t cry. Not yet. Not out yet.
From up the road I heard the sound of an engine. Finally. Coming from the direction of the country club.
Murphy still lay on my back. ‘‘Let’s go. Get her in the truck.’’
I strained to hear the engine. How far away was it? Could be a mile. A minute, ninety seconds away.
I went limp. Let them drag me. Let whoever was coming see that.
Murphy grabbed my left arm and stood up, trying to pull me up with him. I drooped, making myself deadweight. The engine drew closer.
‘‘Hurry,’’ Merlin said.
I hung from Murphy’s hand. Moving just a little, pretending to comply.
Murphy smacked me in the face. I moved faster. He looked up the road. The car was coming, weaving past the scattered traffic cones. The lights flashed and the horn honked.
‘‘Who’s that?’’ Merlin said.
Don’t cry, not yet. I crawled to my knees. ‘‘Vigilante.’’
‘‘Fuck. Fuck.’’
It had to be Marc. It was the bride and groom’s getaway car, with tin cans tied to the bumper and Just Married written on the wi
ndshield in shaving cream.
Merlin flailed his hands. ‘‘She screwed us. I told you.’’
Murphy held me by the wrist. ‘‘We aren’t done with this.’’
The wedding mobile knocked through the toppled cones. Two hundred meters and closing. Marc extended his arm out the window, gun in his hand. I was okay now, scared to death, but dizzy with relief.
Merlin waved his arms. ‘‘Murph, let’s book.’’
Murphy looked down at me. ‘‘Fuck you.’’
He hit me in the jaw, a huge punch. The lights split inside my head. He struck me again. I felt myself land on the dirt. Then he unleashed blow after blow. I tried to raise a hand but he held on to my arm and kicked me in the ribs, kicked me in the stomach. He wrenched my arm, getting leverage for another blow, and I heard a loud pop. I felt pain and uselessness.
I heard a gunshot. Again. Again. Murphy dropped me.
I fell on my side, head flopping in the puddle. Shoes scuffled away. Heard car doors slamming. Truck engine, roaring off, gravel and dust spewing in my eyes.
I lay on the ground, one side of my face in the water. I didn’t move. Breathing was agony. It felt like a hot iron bar had been run through the bones of my arm and shoulder.
I heard, dimly, the wedding car braking to a halt. Feet running toward me. Felt a new hand touching my hip.
‘‘Don’t move.’’ Marc’s voice was a blanket of calm. ‘‘Can you hear me?’’
I moved my lips. All I could see was red and yellow light. The world tasted like mud.
‘‘Can you feel your arms and legs?’’ he said.
I could. But when I tried to shift my arm, it just hung. ‘‘Uh-huh.’’
‘‘Hang on.’’
I felt him gather me up and lift me off the ground. I crumpled against him, head on his shoulder. He carried me to the car and lowered me in. I still couldn’t see his face, or much of anything. But I felt his hand touch my cheek.
‘‘Motherfucking bastards,’’ he said.
I cried.
23
The ER doctor said, ‘‘Take a deep breath.’’ But breathing killed. I held still instead, sitting on the examination table with the nurse bracing herself against me and the doctor maneuvering my arm, getting ready to pop my shoulder back into the joint. His touch was torment.
He yanked. It went loud and quick, with a crack and a flashing sensation through my whole body. He lowered my arm and felt the shoulder and the elbow.
‘‘Got ’em. That reduced both dislocations.’’
The nurse helped me lie down. I curled onto my side and she draped me with a blanket. Still, I shivered. The lights in the treatment room seemed cold. Remarkably, the pain in my shoulder was diminishing. But my arm felt useless. I felt useless.
The nurse’s voice was quiet. ‘‘The police are here to talk to you.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
She put her hand on mine. ‘‘When we took off your dress, we saw that your panties are ripped. Did the men who attacked you—’’
‘‘No.’’
The dress was smeared with muck. Looking at it made me feel slutty. The nurse’s hand rested on mine, cool and insistent.
‘‘They didn’t,’’ I said.
Two SBPD officers interviewed me. They were polite,but their blue uniforms crowded the room. I lay on my side with my knees pulled up. I could talk if I kept my teeth together.
They were about to leave when I asked whether Marc was in trouble. ‘‘Commander Dupree. About the wedding car.’’
‘‘Ma’am?’’
Outside the country club, the Mings had jumped Marc from behind. They wrapped a phone cord around his neck, tethered him to the parking valet’s podium, then hopped in his truck and took off after me. Marc fought his way loose and forced the parking valet to give him the keys to the wedding car. At gunpoint.
‘‘Afraid I don’t know anything about it, ma’am.’’
The next hour passed in a haze. The doctor brought X-rays. I had broken ribs and extensive internal bruising. They admitted me for observation overnight. They taped my ribs and immobilized my shoulder, and took me upstairs to a room. Getting into bed hurt worse than having the dislocations reduced. They gave me heavy-duty painkillers.
Eventually Brian came. One glance at his face told me how bad I looked. His eyes were so black they practically glowed. His voice was barely a whisper.
‘‘Those fucks are going away. Make no mistake.’’
I blinked. The drugs hadn’t reached the pain yet, and talking hurt.
‘‘I should have gone with you,’’ he said. ‘‘If I’d been there, none of this would have happened.’’
‘‘No. My fault.’’
‘‘Absolutely not.’’ He stared at the bruises and cuts on my face. He took his time. ‘‘Marc saw you leave with Jesse.’’
‘‘Don’t.’’
‘‘Why shouldn’t I?’’
His voice was rising. The old fight was once again in front of me, and I had no strength left for battle.
‘‘What happened? Where is he?’’ Brian said.
I gaped. What did he mean, where was Jesse? ‘‘Doesn’t he know?’’
‘‘Marc tried and couldn’t get him,’’ he said. ‘‘Evan, did he leave you there alone?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Don’t cover for him.’’
Behind him in the doorway, Marc appeared. ‘‘Delaney.’’
Brian hated to disengage. From the heat in his eyes I knew he had his target in sight and wanted to lock on. He stood by the bed, clasping the rail with both hands.
Marc walked to the bedside. ‘‘This is neither the time nor the place.’’
He had removed his jacket and tie, and his white shirt was blemished red with blood where my face had lain against it.
I looked at Brian. ‘‘I got out of the car.’’ I shifted, wincing. ‘‘Jesse begged me to get back in. I wouldn’t.’’
‘‘Why?’’ Brian said.
‘‘None of your business.’’ As if they couldn’t guess that we’d argued. ‘‘We saw Marc’s truck coming. We thought it was safe.’’
‘‘He should have—’’
‘‘Stop,’’ I said.
Marc put a hand on Brian’s shoulder. ‘‘Take five.’’
Brian looked ready to resist, but Marc’s hand was firm. Brian nodded, gave me a reluctant look, and left. Marc exhaled.
‘‘Thank you,’’ I said.
‘‘I don’t deserve it. I was a lousy bodyguard.’’
‘‘You showed up. That’s enough.’’
Carefully, he brushed a lock of hair off my forehead with his index finger. His face was solemn. The pain in his eyes embarrassed me. I didn’t want this attention, people’s sad stares.
‘‘You were tough out there today,’’ he said.
‘‘No, scared shitless.’’
‘‘That’s what bravery is. Keeping your head and executing when it’s scarier than shit. And you did, which is why you’re alive.’’
I couldn’t stand hearing this. I had different words to describe myself. Foolish. Cocky. I had misjudged the risk and overestimated my abilities. Leg speed and fast talk counted for nothing with people as brutal as the Mings. Nothing I did could stop them. I had tried everything, and they beat me to hell anyway.
Like a wave the tears rose again. They stung my eyes and face where my cheek was cut.
‘‘Damn. Ow.’’
I blotted at them with my good hand. Marc took out a handkerchief and dabbed my face. He smoothed my hair.
‘‘You have nothing to be ashamed of. Hear me? You were overmatched, and you got out.’’
‘‘Great. Next time I won’t fight as a heavyweight.’’
His brown eyes refocused, taken by surprise. He smiled and shook his head. He covered my hand with his, stroking it.
‘‘Do you not know that you are amazing?’’ he said.
He lifted my hand to his lips. He kissed my palm. He k
issed my wrist. He kissed each of my fingers in turn, his lips lingering on my skin.
It was incredibly touching, and sexy, and emotionally bewildering. I didn’t pull away.
He looked at me. ‘‘That’s just because you deserve it.’’
I felt thrilled and wrong and frighteningly at peace, all at once. Marc’s gaze steadied on my face. He lowered my hand to the bed.
‘‘You rest. Brian and I will be right outside all night.’’
When he was gone I lay silently, focusing on nothing for a long time. I could feel the drugs taking effect. Dulling the pain, dulling my brain, until I didn’t care about broken and dislocated bones, only about the drowsiness luring me. I knew I was going out. I held on a minute, thinking, and the nurse came in. She asked if there was anything I needed. There was.
I couldn’t reach the phone. I asked her to dial Jesse’s number for me.
Jesse sat on the beach. It was cold. Too cold to swim, but being near the water cleared his head. The breakers rolled white in the reddening light. The sun was halfway down. He’d been out here for a long time.
He watched the sun thin to a gold lacquer on the ocean. Dusk came, chill and blue in a sky that emptied to infinity.
He saw two choices. One led to his life emptying out like the sky, blue to black to absolute zero. The other led he didn’t know where. Maybe to the sun coming up. Maybe right back to this place he’d been for so long, a chronic twilight where the pain stripped him bare and ghosts beseeched him deep at night. He didn’t know which choice was harder.
The breakers rolled, on and on. Finally, when night-fall swallowed his shadow, he headed back to the house.
I couldn’t reach him. His home phone just rang and his cell was switched off. The drugs were hauling me toward sleep, and I couldn’t last any longer. I asked the nurse to have my brother keep trying both numbers. I drained into the darkness.
24
The phone rang, and he ignored it. It stopped. He turned on a lamp. It brought up his reflection in the plate-glass windows. His hair was wrecked with wind. His eyes looked sooty. What a picture, to quote his mom.
The phone rang again. Persistently. Fifteen, twenty rings. People knew that it could take him a while to pick up, but usually nobody insisted like this. Finally he answered it.
Lilia Rodriguez sounded ticked off. ‘‘Evan didn’t show for our meeting today.’’
