by Thomas Perry
The SUV took them across the city to a quiet street in Henderson, and up the street to a small yellow-tan stucco house with a red tile roof that made it look as though it had been built in Tuscany. The van pulled into the open garage and Jane and Iris got out. Jane said, "Thank you."
"Stay safe," the woman said, and waited in the driveway to watch them walk to the back door of the house.
Jane knocked on the kitchen door, and in a few seconds a woman about forty years old, taller than Jane, came and opened it. She was wearing black capri pants and a T-shirt, as though she were up for the day and knew it would be hot. "Come in."
As they did, Jane said, "My name is Melanie. This is Iris."
"Hello," the woman said. "I'm Sandy. There are three other women here already-Beth, Michelle, and Diane. They're asleep, but they've got jobs that start around nine, so they'll be up before too long. I volunteered to let you in."
"Thank you," Jane said.
"I'll show you your room. Do you mind sharing"
"No," Iris said. "It helps."
They followed Sandy into a back bedroom, where there were two narrow beds. Jane stepped close to the window and eased the curtain aside a half inch. The light was strong enough already so she could read the sign at the end of the street and the numbers on the houses. There were lights on in the kitchens of many of the houses, but very soon they wouldn't be needed. She said, "Come on, Iris. Maybe we can make ourselves useful in the kitchen. Before long it will be time for breakfast."
"Great idea. Let's get started." Iris hurried out of the room. She seemed to react instantly to fulfill any suggestion from anyone, as though on her own she had no idea what to do, or even what to want.
Sandy said quietly, "Do you know her story"
"No. But it can't have been good. I figured keeping occupied might help her."
Sandy nodded. "It helps us all." They headed into the kitchen. As soon as Iris got there she began to work. As each new person came in for breakfast, she would nod and smile, but say nothing. Jane would introduce her and ask what each person wanted to eat, and Iris would duck her head away and go to work like a short-order cook, making the food as quickly as possible. There was a strange subservience about her, and Jane recognized that this was a person who had spent a long period buying safety with compliance. When the others left to get dressed for work, Jane cleaned the kitchen and did the dishes. She made Iris sit at the table and drink coffee "to keep me company." She praised Iris's cooking, and talked about what they could do to their new room when they'd found jobs and had time to earn a little money.
During the afternoon Iris kept to herself, going around the house dusting and vacuuming and polishing things that looked to Jane to be polished already. After dinner Iris took her turn in the shower and then lay on her bed with a transistor radio next to her head, turned on so low that a person five feet away couldn't hear.
Jane tried to get to know the other housemates. Not one could talk about who she was without referring to a husband or boyfriend who had at some point begun to hurt her, first by belittling, then by cursing, and finally by hitting. In the midst of the stories there were varying digressions about drugs, alcohol, other women, children. Jane didn't reciprocate. She said little, until a woman named Kyesha finally said, "And what about you What are you doing here" Jane stood, lifted the back of her shirt to show the angry burns and the deepening purple marks of the beatings, and then sat down again. "I don't think I'm ready to talk about it yet." Then she changed the subject to what jobs the women had found and where she might look for work, and the others seemed relieved.
Jane was trying to recover by getting as much rest and sleep as possible, so she excused herself at nine and went into the bedroom. Iris had fallen asleep with the radio on, so she turned it off. Within minutes she was asleep, too.
She slept deeply, until she awoke sitting up. She looked at the clock beside the bed. It was just after two a.m. She lay back in bed and closed her eyes again, listening to the night silence of the house. Had there been a noise that woke her Yes. She heard it again-the scraping of metal on metal. She lay still, listening and evaluating the sounds, then decided that letting this kind of sound go uninvestigated would be the wrong thing to do.
She stood with some difficulty and put most of her weight on her strong left leg. When she stepped with her right there was pain, but she quietly moved toward the source of the sound. The sound was coming from the kitchen door, and it was so low that she could hear it only because the air conditioner had cooled the house enough to quit and leave absolute silence. Jane looked out a crack between the kitchen window curtains and saw the shadow of a man bent over, fiddling with the part of the door near the doorknob. He must be jimmying the lock.
There was a quiet creak, a cracking sound as the wood beside the lock was compressed by a tool, and the door moved inward a little. Jane turned and bent low, moving as quickly as she could on her bad leg toward the bedroom. She made it through the doorway, found her bed, and flopped onto it. She listened, and after a few seconds she heard the floor in the hallway creak.
A shadow filled the doorway, and a man's voice said, "I know you're awake." The level was conversational, not a whisper. "You can't hide in bed."
Jane sat up to face him, and turned on the lamp beside her bed so the room was awash in bright light.
"Iris!" the man said loudly.
Iris's legs jerked under the covers as though she were trying to run. She lifted her head, seemed to wake, and saw him. Her face appeared to collapse, her mouth hung open, and Jane heard a low moan that grew steadily higher, like a sob.
The man was tall, dressed in a pair of tight blue jeans and western boots. His black shirt hung loose like a Hawaiian shirt, and Jane suspected it was to cover some kind of weapon. She said, "Who are you"
The man stepped toward Iris's bed without looking at Jane. "None of your business."
Jane flung her blanket aside and called, "Hold it."
The man's eyes involuntarily turned toward her voice, and saw that her hand held a gun that was aimed at his chest. He stopped in mid-stride.
Jane spoke quietly. "If you take a step toward her, you'll never take another one."
He turned his head the rest of the way toward Jane, and his shoulders squared. "I came to take her home." He glared at Iris for a moment, and his voice seemed to harden. "She asked me to come because she wants to go home." He turned to Iris. "Don't you"
Jane swung her good leg to the floor, stood up beside her bed, and aimed the gun at him with both hands. "I know you can probably scare her into saying something that she doesn't want to. Now I want you to take a long, careful look at me. If you think I haven't fired a gun into a man before, or that I have even a slight reluctance to do it again right now, then go ahead. Try to get to me."
He studied her angrily, and seemed to see something he didn't like. His arms and shoulders lost their rigidity, and his knees straightened. He crossed his arms on his chest. "Why don't you let her decide"
"She decided to go to a shelter instead of being with you. And after you found out where she was, you decided that the only way you'd ever get past the door was if you forced the lock. Is that about right"
"You can say it like that, and I can't deny it, but it's not really like that. We had a little argument, like married people have, and she did something foolish. Now she's been waiting for me because she can't get home without me." He turned to Iris, and once again his voice became harsh, imperative. "Tell her."
Iris's voice was tremulous. "Please. Please." It was impossible to tell who she was talking to.
"There you go," he said. "See"
"Please," Iris said again. "Don't let him take me."
"There you go." Jane stepped toward the end of the bed, where she had a clearer view of him. He wouldn't be able to take cover behind any furniture. "Take yourself back out the door where you came in."
"I'm not leaving without her."
"Of course you are," Jane said.
"Just turn slowly and walk to the door." She advanced a step to adjust her angle so that when he stepped through the doorway, she wouldn't lose sight of him for even a second. "I'm going easy on you because I don't want to spend a lot of time going to your trial. Just leave, and that will be the end of it."
He took two steps, his head down and his body slouching, but the steps were too small. She saw him take a deep breath, then another. Then he leaped toward her, reaching out to grab for the gun. Iris screamed.
Jane stepped back, his leap fell short, and he snatched empty air as Jane fired. He sprawled on the floor, his right arm still extended. Jane stepped close to him, the gun in her hand. She said to Iris, "He's going to need an ambulance. Can you go to the phone and dial nine-one-one, please"
"What are you going to do"
"I'm afraid I've got to leave before they get here."
"No. Don't leave me alone with him, Melanie."
Jane looked up and saw the other three women venture cautiously into the room. Jane said, "There. See The others are here. They'll take care of you and help you get through this. You'll get sent somewhere else where you'll be safe."
"I'll never be safe." Iris turned to the other women. "I divorced him, but he took me and made me stay with him for months, and he hurt me every day, until I got away and came to the shelter. He came here, too, but Melanie stopped him. She tried to make him leave, but he came after her."
"We've got to call Sarah," said Sandy, the woman who had met Jane and Iris when they'd arrived. "Don't do anything until I come back." She hurried into the living room.
The four women stood in the bedroom, as far from the wounded man as possible. None of them appeared to want to do anything to stop his bleeding.
He said to Jane, "Police will be here soon. You really messed me up with that gun. You're going to jail, honey."
"No, honey. I'm not," said Jane. "And if you do anything but lie there, you're not, either."
Sandy came back, still holding the phone. "She's on the way. She'll be here in a few minutes. She said don't do anything, don't say anything, just make sure he doesn't hurt anybody or get away."
A few minutes later, Sarah Werth and the young assistant pulled up in front of the house in two cars, and came inside. The young assistant knelt over the man. "Give me your arm." She snapped handcuffs on his wrists. Then she stood.
Sarah Werth beckoned to Jane. "Come out here with me, Melanie." Jane stepped into her shoes and followed her into the kitchen.
Sarah looked at the door. "Is this where he came in"
"Yes. He jimmied the lock with something. We'd better see what, because it's still on him. He came in to get Iris."
"And you shot him after he jumped to get your gun away. Is that right"
"That's the short version."
"We don't have much time." She reached into her purse and produced a folded wad of money with a paper clip on it. "Take this."
"But-"
"This is no time to be coy. We have minutes." She put the money in Jane's hand and added a set of car keys. "Take the black car that's at the curb. Get as far away from here as you can. When you're safe, leave it somewhere sensible, and mail me the keys and a note saying where it is."
"You can't do this," said Jane. "You'll get in terrible trouble."
Sarah Werth said, "He found her, broke in, and tried to kidnap her. When I intervened, he tried to attack me, so I shot him. I have a damaged door, five eyewitnesses, a registered pistol, and a lifetime of good behavior. I can take the heat without any effort. You can't. Now I need time to fire my own gun so there will be powder residue on my hands and a bullet missing. So go. You saved Iris's life tonight. Go save your own."
Jane leaned close and kissed Sarah's cheek. "You're like an angel."
"So are you. Good for us. If we're mistaken, I'll be proud to spend some time with you in hell. Now get out of here." She pushed Jane toward the front door.
Jane slipped out into the night. She put the gun into the waistband of her black exercise pants, limped to the small black Honda at the curb, got in, and started it.
She turned her head to look back at the safe house, but as she did, she saw Iris. She was running down the front lawn toward Jane, a look of terror on her face. She was carrying the backpack she'd brought with her. Jane could only imagine that somehow the man had gotten loose. She opened her car door and started up the lawn, but Iris reached her, clutched her arms, and said, "Please, Melanie. Take me with you."
Jane said, "Iris, honey. I can't do that. Where I'm going, it will be more dangerous than it is here."
"You have to. He's hardly hurt at all. He'll never stop looking for me. When he finds me this time, he'll kill me."
There was the muffled sound of a shot from inside the house. It had to be Sarah firing her pistol. It wasn't loud, but Jane could see that a couple of lights had gone on in upper windows of houses along the street. Jane heard, far off, the sound of sirens. She knew before looking at Iris's face that she was telling the truth about the ex-husband. He would never stop, and there was no chance the women in the safe house could stop him. She looked back at the house just as the young assistant stepped out on the porch. She waved at Jane frantically, urging her away. "Get in."
She drove toward the bright lights of the Las Vegas Strip and Interstate 15. The Strip was so big and bright that it threw its impossible smear of color into the sky-blue, green, gold, red-and tore a gash in the night. Her car rose onto the overpass above Route 15 and, for a moment, was part of the light.
Iris crouched in the passenger seat as Jane went over the bridge down the ramp and onto Route 15. She drove up the wide interstate out of town and into the darkness, keeping at the speed limit every second, never letting up at all. She was heading north, as the signs reminded her after every entrance ramp, and she drove with the sensation that every mile she put behind her was making her and Iris safer. It was another few minutes before she thought to take the pistol out of her waistband and hide it under her seat.
Jane said, "I'm going to Salt Lake City." She looked at Iris beside her, but there was no visible reaction. "Since you're with me, that means that's where you're going too. Is Salt Lake City all right with you"
"I guess so," Iris said "I've never been there, and nobody there knows my name."
"What is your name" said Jane.
"Iris May Salter," she said. "It used to be Hampton, but I had my maiden name restored in the divorce."
"Iris Salter is your real name"
"Real Of course. It never occurred to me to change it again, but maybe that's a good idea."
"You might want to consider it. I find it never hurts to make things a little harder for people who want to hurt you."
"Steve-that's my ex-husband's name-seemed to think he had a right to hurt me."
"People who like to hurt you can always tell you why it's your fault."
Jane drove along Interstate 15, trying to put as much road as possible behind them. It was nerve-racking to be on such a major highway, the most obvious way out of Las Vegas. If the police listened to Iris's ex-husband and thought they needed to hunt for the woman who had really fired the shot, they would be on Interstate 15, too. They already were on Interstate 15, all day every day, all night every night, because Interstate 15 wasn't just a river of money coming into town. It was the route of an invading army of troublemakers and screwups. Jane couldn't afford to be pulled over by a cop for some minor infraction tonight. The authorities in Los Angeles had already had three days to take frame grabs from the security cameras in the courthouse and distribute them to cops along the obvious escape routes, and Las Vegas was the most obvious escape route of all.
As Jane drove, she tried to decipher and untangle her predicament. She was hurt. She had promised Jim Shelby she would meet him at the hotel in Salt Lake City, and she was already three days late. Crouching in the seat beside her was a young woman whose will seemed to have been beaten out of her.
Jane said, "I think we shou
ld talk."
"Okay. What about"
"I wasn't planning to take you with me. When you came running out, I thought something else had happened, and then you were in the car and we had to leave. For a lot of reasons you don't know yet, that might not have been your best move."
"I had to get away."
"Getting away from a man like that is a good idea, but that's not the point. The point is that everything you'd seen about me was an indication that I had a few problems that existed before I met you, and might put you in worse danger."
"I know," said Iris. "I saw your back after your bath. And I saw the bandage on your leg. And the giant bruise around it."
"You saw that"
"I wanted to meet you, so I went into our room, and I saw you weren't there. I went toward the bathroom, and you had finished your bath and opened the door a crack to get rid of the steam. When you reached up to clean the steam off the mirror with your towel, I slipped aside so you wouldn't see me in the mirror and think I was spying on you. But I saw."
"Seeing the marks shouldn't have made you want to risk going with me. I couldn't even protect myself."
"I could see you were someone who understood what it's like. Your burns are from metal that was heated up. You can see that on my back, too. When Steve did that to me he used a bunch of big nails. He heated them in a frying pan and dumped them out on my back. And I could see where somebody hit you with a switch, too. In some ways that was the worst for me, even though it hurt less than the burns or the punches. It was humiliating, like a child being whipped for doing something bad. I'm sure you know."
Jane said, "I'm not much like the person I've been pretending to be. Let's try to figure out what you can do, and where I can take you."
"I'm not the way I seem, either. I'm a normal person. I never even knew people like Steve. I met him at a club in LA. He carried himself like a bad boy, and I thought that was dark and mysterious and sexy. He was very male, always in charge. And there was an edge to him, sort of a repressed anger that I took for toughness. I fell for him-or for the man I had invented. That's the right term-fell for him, like you fall for a hoax or a fraud. I married him. A few months after that, he started to work on me. I was young and naive, and to him that was the same as being stupid. I wasn't a poor kid, brought up in the backwoods somewhere, and I hadn't raised myself on the streets, so I was weak. I liked pretty clothes and things, so I was spoiled. After a while I was sad. It was hard to live with his contempt and be happy. I told him I didn't like being treated that way, so I was a nasty bitch. After a while he was watching everything I did, but without ever looking at me when he spoke to me. I was an enemy, and the minute he got up in the morning he started noticing things about me that weren't right. The day after the hitting started I left. I slipped out and went to my parents' house in Sherman Oaks. I filed for divorce from there. My father was a doctor, and we had a nice house with my old room and everything, but he told me the best thing for me was to go to another city until the divorce was final. I should get a job and meet nice people my age and do some thinking about the future I wanted."
