by CJ Lyons
Lucy gunned the engine, swerving the SUV to stay out of Walden’s line of fire as he aimed his weapon at the motorcyclist. There was no clear shot because June was too close, pinned between the six-foot wide concrete planter and the motorcycle.
The shooter saw his chance to grab a human shield, hauling June across the body of the motorcycle. At the sight of Walden standing, aiming his pistol, a motorist on Water Street slammed his brakes. The car’s fender clipped Walden, spinning him around and sending him sprawling to the ground.
Lucy only had time for a quick glance in the mirror to check on Walden as she twisted the steering wheel—couldn’t ram the motorcycle and risk injuring June, but maybe she could get in front of him, block his escape on Water Street.
The motorcyclist had another plan altogether. Instead of veering back onto the street to make his escape, he swerved down the nearest ramp leading past the amphitheater and to the river.
Oshiro struggled to get up, blood covering his face and something obviously wrong with his arm. Seth crawled out from under him, calling June’s name.
Lucy scanned the terrain in front of her. No way would the Forrester fit on the handicapped ramps and the steps were too steep. But adjacent to the plaza was an undeveloped parcel of land covered in dirt and weeds, surrounded only by a plastic mesh snow fence. She pressed down on the accelerator, twisted the steering wheel, and sent the SUV flying over the curb and through the fence.
Mud and decapitated plants churned the air as she raced through the lot, dragging stray lengths of bright orange plastic fencing material behind her. She aimed for the corner of the lot that overlooked the trail leading to the river, praying that her memory was correct. If it was, then the slope of the trail meant that the paved path lay only six to eight feet below the parcel she was speeding across—the SUV could make that drop, as long as it didn’t roll over.
Of course, even if she was right and the pavement was only a few feet below her, not the twenty some feet it was on the opposite side of the plaza, then she still had one more problem—how to turn the SUV to stay on the path without it sliding down the hill and into the river.
Already planning her trajectory, she angled the Forrester and tried to gauge a speed fast enough to make the leap but slow enough to maintain control. Beside her, she spotted the helmet of the motorcyclist as he zigzagged down the ramp. The sharp turns and June’s struggles had slowed him down. Good, she could still beat him to the riverside path. He must be planning to take it downriver to make his escape.
Or maybe he had a boat waiting at the landing? But that meant accomplices and planning—could they have put this all into motion during the hour that June and the others had been inside having lunch?
The ground sped past too fast for her to finish her thoughts. Then she was out of time and flying through the air, her height enough to spy the dark waters of the Monongahela beyond the large concrete wall that suddenly appeared in front of her. Damn, she knew she’d forgotten something. Guess that solved the whole what was going to stop her from driving into the river problem.
Now it was a how was she going to keep from slamming into a concrete wall when she finished flying off the side of the slope and hit the ground problem.
The Girl Who Never Was: Memoirs of a Survivor
by June Unknown
Why Your Real World Wasn’t Ever Mine
EVER SINCE THAT night in the mall, just about every adult I met who knew my truth acted like they’d rescued me.
Hellhole. Prison. Dungeon. That’s what they called my home.
To me it was the world for the first ten years of my life. And for the next nine years, I tried desperately to go back—at first literally, and then when I understood that was a lost cause, figuratively.
I hated this “real” world. Everything moved too fast, sounded so loud I’d be exhausted from my constant startles and jerks. Space made no sense and I got sick every time I rode in a car or elevator.
And the people. So many people. Strangers all of them, yet they crowded against me, sometimes touching me, talking at me with words I didn’t understand, asking me things I didn’t know how to answer. Often they’d just stare at me with the look Daddy used to get when I was a Bad Girl and disappointed him, made him re-do a picture or video or just didn’t act like a Good Girl should.
Daddy would usually just shrug and ruffle his fingers through my hair, tell me “it’s okay, Baby Girl,” (unless I was really, really Bad, but I don’t like to remember those times). Not these people. They’d get that look, frown, then talk above me, over my head to whatever adult was around, as if I wasn’t even there.
But they’d never leave me alone.
And there were so many rules that I didn’t know about and no one told me. Like wearing Dress Up clothes all day and night. All those buttons and zippers and laces and layers—inside out, backward, I had no clue what to do with them all. When it was time for Dress Up, Daddy always dressed me, gentle pushes, arms up, turn around, hold still, there you go, beautiful.
Here, all I got were yelling and spankings and laughed at.
Clothes were just the start. Social Worker and the grownups in the houses I went to—a new one over and over with new daddies and mommies and sometimes other kids, they were the worst, knew I didn’t belong and made me pay for it every minute—they all talked to me about Good Touch and Bad Touch, but when you have no idea of the difference between private and public, and the only touch you’ve ever had came served with declarations of love, I didn’t understand.
Just like I didn’t understand about closing the door when using the toilet or being in there alone—I hated being alone almost as much as I hated being with these noisy, smelly people—or taking a shower by myself or not walking in when someone else was in there. Daddy and I did everything together. He was never, ever out of my sight, day or night, always within reach, except when I was a Very Bad Girl and he locked me in the basement, which was almost never.
Being sent to my room or forced to sleep in my own bed, all alone, all night long—these were torture. I needed to be with someone. Not all these people, not go outside and play with the kids (what was play?), I just needed that one person to protect me, keep me warm and safe, make me feel like everything would be okay.
I needed my Daddy.
They looked at me funny every time I asked for him. Looked at me even worse, like I was going to make them cry, when I finally answered all their questions about Daddy and what it was like back home. Even then, they never went to get him or brought me back home. So I stopped talking.
Then I got sick all the time. I couldn’t ever remember being sick back home with Daddy. The first time it scared me, I thought I was dying like people on TV. The mommies told me to stop being a baby, it was only a cold. But they still kept taking me to the doctor where Bad Nurses gave me shots if I didn’t have a fever, but then a day later I would have a fever and feel even worse.
Sometimes at night, finally in quiet but all too alone, I’d let myself cry, making myself more miserable because one of Daddy’s rules was Baby Girls Don’t Cry, and I’d hug myself and pull my fuzzy blanket over my head to block out the rest of the world and I’d try so very hard to pretend it was Daddy holding me tight and keeping me warm and that he’d still be there in the morning when I woke.
The adults all acted like I should thank them, like they were heroes for taking me away from Daddy. Before I met Dr. Helen, a lot of them said it was okay if I was angry and hated Daddy.
How could I ever hate him? He loved me and I loved him. He kept me warm and safe and away from these crazy people and doctors and nurses who stuck me with needles all the time and social workers who wanted me to talk about things they didn’t understand and from the new daddies and mommies who got so mad at me (one even hit me!) and the kids who said mean things and tried to take my fuzzy blanket and make me cry but I wouldn’t let them.
I was safe at home with Daddy. Even the few times when I was a Very Bad Girl and we’d j
ust see about that and give you some time to think about what you did and how you can be a Good Girl, I never felt scared.
Not really. Well, maybe a little. When I was a Very Bad Girl, Daddy would lock me in the basement with no lights I could reach to turn on and the house would go cold and quiet, so quiet, and I knew he was gone and not coming back until I figured out how to be Good again. I’d drink from the sink near the washer and eat cans of tuna fish he kept down there and sit in the dark and think about how to be a better Baby Girl.
The first time it was scary—not the dark, the being alone for the first time ever. All my life Daddy was right there, close enough to touch, every second of every single day. I thought I might go crazy that first time, left alone.
I cried, I couldn’t help it, but then, finally, after a long, long, longest time, the door at the top of the steps opened and the light hurt my eyes but there he was, so big and strong, glowing like the sun and moon, like he was my whole wide world and I ran up and leapt into his arms.
He always came back. Always. And when he did, he always said the magic words, the best words in the whole wide world, the words that no one here will ever say, not the way he did, not the way that made my insides glow like a light bulb had been clicked on so bright the light leaked out of me like a song coming straight from my heart.
When Daddy came back, he’d pick me up, give me a hug and say, “I love you, Baby Girl.”
No matter how much time has passed, no matter how I know I should feel now that I’m grown and know the truth, how can I ever hate that man?
Chapter 11
IT WASN’T LIKE in the movies where stunt drivers were able to miraculously steer flying cars simply by wrenching the wheel and hanging on, jaw clenched. Thankfully, Lucy’s memory of the topography had been close enough that she’d sent the Subaru off the side of the hill at an angle that pretty much aimed her where she wanted to go.
The few seconds she was in the air seemed to defy the laws of physics, the concrete wall looming in her windows, filling her vision. But then gravity worked its magic and the car fell back to earth, slamming into the pavement hard enough to send an explosion of pain through Lucy’s foot and to jerk her body against her seatbelt, but not enough to make the airbags blow.
Thankful for the SUV’s solid suspension that turned the collision into a series of severe bounces, she tapped the brakes and gingerly corrected her steering, wary of skidding into the concrete barrier. The rear fender scraped against the wall but she kept control, maneuvering the vehicle into the center of the wide paved path designed for bicyclists and pedestrians.
The motorcycle—June now clinging to her abductor, eyes wide with fear as he spun it fast and tight around the ramp’s final switchback—was about twenty yards in front of Lucy, heading straight for the river.
As soon as Lucy cleared the concrete walls, she saw the river and a motorboat waiting. Now it was a real race, the Forrester and the motorcycle approaching the boat from opposite sides of the landing. Lucy took the straightest path, aiming to intersect the motorcycle and block its route. With limited room to maneuver, she held her course despite the motorcyclist swerving away from the river, obviously trying to steer around her.
He was almost past her, close enough for her to hear June’s scream for help over the roar of the two vehicles, when she slammed the brakes, pulled up on the emergency brake, and wrenched the wheel, spinning the Forrester into a controlled skid. The vehicle pivoted, tires protesting, and came to a halt directly in front of the boat, forcing the motorcyclist to also brake hard.
Whoever was manning the boat—a man wearing a Steeler’s cap and dark parka—must have decided to cut his losses because even as the motorcyclist was backing his bike up, fighting for room to cut around the Subaru, the boat’s engine growled and it sped away.
Lucy flung open her driver’s door, aiming her weapon at the motorcyclist. Seth came sprinting down the steps from the plaza above, calling to June. Not exactly the kind of backup she’d hoped for.
“Stop!” Lucy shouted.
The motorcyclist’s face was invisible behind the dark shield of his helmet but his head jerked in what appeared to be a nod. He pushed June off the cycle, sending her sprawling to the pavement, twisted the bike’s handlebars, and roared off, heading down the trail. Lucy almost had a shot but Seth ran right into her line of fire. Thankfully her reflexes were good enough that she released the trigger in time.
“June, are you all right?” Seth fell to his knees beside June, his hands running over her arms, legs, belly, searching for injuries.
“I’m fine,” she gasped. “It all happened so fast.”
He pulled her into his arms. But kept his head raised, searching around them for any threat.
Lucy called the details into Pittsburgh law enforcement. “I got a fair look at the guy on the boat,” Lucy told the dispatch operator. “Early to mid fifties, Caucasian, brown hair, Steeler cap, sunglasses, black parka, jeans. Nothing distinguishing.”
“How about the boat?” he asked.
“One engine, it was good-sized, though.” She closed her eyes in thought. She’d approached the boat from behind, surely there was a name? “Name started with K-A-T. Wasn’t very long. One word. I couldn’t see the rest. Katrina, maybe?”
“We have several other callers from your incident. EMS is also en route. I’ll relay that the scene is safe for them to approach.”
Lucy hung up and assessed the situation.
“How’re Oshiro and Walden?” she asked Seth.
He glanced up the hill, panicked. “I’m not sure.”
Seth helped June up onto her feet. Her knees were scraped but no other apparent injuries. “We need to get her out of here. Now.” Urgency tightened his voice.
“I’m on it.” The Forrester wasn’t going to get them up the hill. She slung her bag over her chest, then took her cane and left the Subaru behind. As the three of them trudged up the steps, Lucy keeping her weapon close at hand and watching for any other attackers, she called Taylor. “Can I borrow your car?”
“Sure,” he answered absently. “Why not sign out a pool car?”
“Because they have GPS and paper trails and according to you, our guy is a poetic hacker. And someone just tried to grab June.”
“Wait, what? Where are you?”
“Plaza beside the Hofbräuhaus.”
“I’m on my way.”
She turned to June. “You’re sure you’re okay? Want to get checked out?”
“No.” June rubbed her belly. “She’s kicking a bit, but everything feels fine. I didn’t hit that hard, it wasn’t far to fall.”
“Maybe we should take you to a hospital,” Seth said, his arm circled around her, keeping her so close their bodies touched as if he could act as a human shield.
“No,” June repeated, more firmly. “He found me in a hospital before, remember?”
“How did they find us?” Seth asked, his gaze circling up and down the path.
“Wish I knew,” Lucy answered. “But I think we shouldn’t stick around here while we figure it out.”
They made it to the plaza at the top. Oshiro still lay at the curb, a group of bystanders gathered around trying to help. His face was smeared with blood, one eye puffed and swollen, the skin around it split, and his expression black with rage. Walden knelt on the pavement beside him, holding pressure on Oshiro’s arm but only using one hand.
“Son of a bitch,” Oshiro said, pushing up to one elbow, grimacing with pain. “June, are you okay?”
She smiled at him. “I’m fine, thanks to Lucy. I’m so sorry—”
He shook her words away. “No. I’m sorry. It’s my job to—”
Taylor arrived, screeching to the curb in his yellow MiniCooper, cutting short any more conversation. He jumped out, took in the scene. “Man, I miss all the fun.”
The more serious a situation, the more Taylor’s warped sense of humor appeared. Usually it was a good way to diffuse the tension, but Lucy had n
o time for it now.
“Keys,” she ordered. He dropped them into her hand. Seth was already helping June into the front seat. The car wasn’t as spacious as the Forrester or as inconspicuous as Lucy would have liked, but it was the best she could do on short notice.
“Is he going to be all right?” she asked Walden.
“Took a bullet to the arm.”
“I’m fine,” Oshiro protested. “Leave, go with June.”
Walden nodded. He let Taylor take over holding the pressure dressing and started to stand. His knees buckled and he landed on his butt. That’s when Lucy saw his left side: blood was streaming from his scalp and his left shoulder was definitely messed up, his arm hanging useless at his side.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she told him. “Taylor, see that they both get to the hospital,” she ordered when both Walden and Oshiro looked as if they might protest. “And that they don’t leave until they’re both checked out.”
She headed to Taylor’s car where June and Seth waited, Seth twisted around in his seat, his posture filled with urgency. If Lucy didn’t have the car keys, she was certain he would have sped off without waiting.
“Take good care of her,” Oshiro called as she limped around to the driver’s side. The ambulance pulled up, its siren drowning out any further conversation, so Lucy gave him a salute to indicate that she’d heard. Then she dropped into the low-slung car, her ankle protesting as she leaned weight onto it and adjusted the seat to a semi-comfortable position.
Full tank of gas, she noted. Only question was: where the hell to go?
Chapter 12
LUCY TURNED ONTO Carson Street. “Where are you taking us?” Seth asked.
“Back to the Federal Building. You’ll be safe there.”
