Stealthy Steps

by Vikki Kestell

  Yes, very interesting.

  He opened the metal box and I gaped. It was stuffed with cash.

  He picked through the mound of money. “Here.” He threw a twenty-dollar bill at her and it fluttered to the floor.

  “Won’t buy much, Baby,” Corazón whispered. “Maybe just dinner t’night.”

  Mateo slammed his cup onto the table. “You complaining?”

  “No, Baby. Just sayin’.” Corazón squatted to pick up the twenty.

  So fast! His foot whipped out so fast.

  I jumped as Mateo’s foot slammed into Corazón’s face. She pitched backwards onto her haunches holding her cheek, but she made not a sound. She scrabbled out of range of Mateo’s feet, which only seemed to enrage him.

  Cursing, he jumped from his seat, grabbed her by her hair, and slammed her head into the wall. Corazón shrieked, but it was apparent that Mateo did not care. Nor would her screams stop him.

  Oh, I really don’t like you, Mateo, I hissed. I really, really, really don’t like you.

  When the chair came crashing down on Mateo’s head, I was mildly surprised. I hadn’t planned to hit him, but I did. More than once.

  After I’d hit him a couple of times, the chair splintered and fell apart. I grabbed one of the chair legs and beat him on the head with it.

  It kinda felt good, letting all that anger out to play, and I didn’t care if it was right or wrong as long as it felt right.

  Corazón was screaming nonstop—almost as loudly as the mites in my head—however, I don’t think Mateo knew (literally) what hit him. When Mateo lay unconscious on the dining room floor, I tossed aside the chair leg. Corazón stared about, her eyes wild.

  I slammed the lid closed on the box of money and pushed it toward her. “Take this. Buy a bus ticket out of town and don’t come back.”

  Corazón freaked and backed away, sobbing. I grabbed the box and shoved it into her arms. She promptly dropped it and ran, howling, into the other part of the house.

  “Huh.” I shrugged, retrieved the box, and followed her. She had locked herself inside the bathroom.

  Novel idea.

  I knocked on the bathroom door. All was silent on the other side except for the girl’s ragged breathing.

  “Corazón, listen to me. I know you can’t see me, but I’m not going to hurt you. Just listen. You need to get away from Mateo before he wakes up.”

  I looked around, trying to pick the right words to galvanize her. You need to blow this popsicle stand? Get outta Dodge?

  I sighed. “What’s he going to think when he wakes up, huh? Let me tell you what he’s going to think. He’s going to think that you beat him up. What do you think he’ll do to you then? Are you waiting for him to kill you? Are you?”

  I had to come up with a plan for her. Fast. “Look. I’m going to leave now. You take the money and take Mateo’s car. Drive to the Sunport and leave the car on the departures curb—just leave it running, get out, and walk away. Go into the airport and take the escalator down to the arrivals curb. Grab a cab there and have it take you to the bus station. Airport security will tow Mateo’s car—it’ll be days before he finds it. In the meantime, you’ll be long gone.”

  It was a long speech met with breathless silence. I waited. “Do you hear me? I don’t know how long he’ll be out. You’d better get moving. I’ll put the money on the table before I go.”

  I set the money box on the table and glanced at Mateo. I thought he was out cold. Just in case, I yanked a set of miniblinds off the dining room window and used the cords to tie his hands and feet. It was all very awkward—I’d never tied anyone up before and I wasn’t much good at it.

  Not sure how long that will last, I thought, but it will give her a little more time if she needs it.

  Then I went to the front door and made noises like I was leaving. I opened the door, paused, and slammed it shut, but really I stayed in the living room. I still wasn’t sure she would have the courage to run.

  She surprised me, though. As soon as the front door banged shut, the bathroom door creaked open. Corazón flew into the bedroom and I heard her opening the closet and drawers, throwing and slamming things about. Five minutes later she wheeled a small suitcase into the living room. She’d tied the mess of her hair into a bun on the back of her neck and put on a clean blouse—one that didn’t have her blood on it.

  She had her purse and a set of keys in her hand as she tiptoed toward the dining table. Mateo lay trussed (quite unprofessionally, I confess) on the floor, eyes closed, mouth hanging open, but the girl hesitated. She was trembling—and she would have to reach over Mateo’s body to get the money box.

  Oh, for pity’s sake!

  I reached over Mateo and grabbed the box for her. “Just take it! Dump the money into your purse and leave the box.”

  She lurched backwards and uttered a yowl like Jake makes when you accidentally rock over his tail with a rocking chair.

  “You’re running out of time.”

  And I am running out of patience.

  Her eyes shot around the room trying to find me, but she swallowed, opened the box, and dumped the contents into her bag. It was one of those big, deep bags.

  Good.

  For a second she studied the plastic-wrapped block on the table.

  “You don’t want that,” I barked. “Now get going.”

  With one more wide-eyed look around, she grabbed her suitcase and rattled down the front steps. When I heard Mateo’s Camaro tear away, I went in search of his cell phone. I found it and made an anonymous phone call to the police.

  “Hey, yeah, some guy has drugs just sitting out in the open on his dining room table. Yeah. Looks like heroin or coke or something. I dunno. And he doesn’t look too good. Like maybe someone beat the tar out of him—he’s out cold on the floor. Here’s the address. No. No name. Yeah. Thanks.”

  Then I walked out of the house, leaving the front door wide open behind me.

  The cops arrived, sirens wailing and lights flashing. They were inside the house for maybe thirty minutes before they dragged Mateo out in handcuffs—a very gratifying sight, I might say, and not gratifying only to me. Abe, the Tuckers, Mr. and Mrs. Flores, and Mrs. Calderón all watched the sight from their respective sidewalks.

  That rash boldness seemed to own me. I sauntered across the cul-de-sac and stood not far from Abe. I wasn’t a bit worried that he or anyone else would notice me. Abe slapped his leg and chuckled to himself and I heard him say two or three times, “Well! Glory to God!” and “Thank you, Jesus!”

  I really wanted to throw in an “amen,” but didn’t think it quite prudent.

  It wasn’t until after the police took Mateo away that I remembered Emilio. What would become of him? Probably CYFD would come pick him up, and that would be a good thing. Surely any foster home would be better than life with his uncle, right?

  I watched for the kid to come home from school later that day. He slipped in the back door like he normally did and, a few minutes later, jetted back out. He shot around the house once, and I heard him calling Corazón’s name. When he didn’t find her, he took his usual seat on the curb, but his expression was puzzled and more than a little anxious.

  Oh, wow. I wonder if he’s worried about Corazón.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have feelings for the young woman. Then it dawned on me that the two of them had been in similar situations when it came to Mateo and his iron fists. Sort of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”? I didn’t know; I could only speculate.

  Emilio placed his hands over his shaved head and stared at the gutter in front of him. Uncertainty radiated from the kid, which made me a little anxious, too. A bit sad.

  After all, I’m the one who’d upset the apple cart—even if the cart was filled with rotten apples.

  I tried to squeeze myself into Emilio’s shoes and decided I could appreciate his anxiety. I mean, Corazón never left the house. Never. (I was actually surprised that she knew how to drive.) But
as soon as he’d entered the house after school, the kid had to have seen the destroyed miniblinds and fractured chair in the dining room. He had to have seen the mess she left in the bedroom as she’d packed to leave.

  Was he wondering whether Corazón was hurt? Wondering whether she’d finally had enough? Was he questioning whether she’d be back?

  I shivered. Was Emilio fretting over his uncle’s response should he come home and find Corazón missing?

  That was a lot of worry for a little kid.

  Corazón was, I sincerely hoped, far away by now, gone for good. I just hadn’t calculated the impact of her absence on Emilio. I hadn’t thought of anything while Mateo was kicking Corazón’s face. I had just acted.

  Well, I’m not sorry. But I was a bit nervous about the repercussions of my actions.

  Maybe it was too late to go back and do things differently—but in the here-and-now I could do something. While he sat on the curb, I went into my house. Then I walked over to his back porch. I looked around before pulling a big sack of food out from under my baggy shirt.

  Look, I have exactly zero experience with little boys—I don’t know what they like to eat or don’t like to eat. No clue. I just filled the bag with anything I happened to have that looked good to me: half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a package of graham crackers, a half-full package of Oreos, a banana, a baggie containing a bunch of grapes, and two apples.

  I set the sack on the porch and backed away. Sat on the grass between Mateo’s house and the Floreses’ house. Waited.

  I guess I waited a couple of hours. I don’t know what Emilio thought about all that time, but shadows were growing long when he picked himself up off the curb and dragged himself toward the back door. He stopped when he saw the sack on the porch.

  He grabbed it, sat down on the steps, and yanked it open. His usual scowl lifted a moment and he actually grinned. Within seconds the kid was stuffing his face with alternating bites of banana and Oreo.

  Not a bad combination, I admitted, smiling at his exuberance.

  He tore into the grapes next and demolished them. I heard him bite the grapes, several at a time, heard their crunchy sweetness bursting in his mouth. It made my own mouth water. He wiped juice from his mouth and sighed.

  It was such an innocent, guileless sigh of contentment.

  I don’t know why my throat closed up or why tears stung my eyes.

  “GEMMA?”

  “Hey, Zander.” I had snubbed his phone calls and deleted his voicemails for two weeks, but I couldn’t have him coming by anymore, looking for me.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for days! You haven’t returned any of my calls.”

  Before, before the barbecue in the park and before all this happened, I would have been thrilled to hear the worry mixed with a little hurt in his voice. Before. However, nothing could be like “before” for me.

  “I’m sorry. To tell you the truth—” I couldn’t finish the sentence I’d planned. I’d rehearsed saying that I didn’t want to see him anymore, but it was more of a lie than I could stomach.

  “Tell me what, Gemma?” He was more concerned.

  “Zander, I’m sort of in a . . . situation. I won’t be able to see you for a while.”

  That’s right. I won’t be able to “see” you, but mostly you won’t be able to (literally) see me, I added.

  Ever.

  “What kind of a situation? A problem? Can I help?”

  Oh, how I wished he could help! Everything in my heart longed to blurt out my problems. But, no, he couldn’t help and I could not involve him. I would rather die than put this good but enigmatic man in the same danger I might soon be in.

  “No. Thanks for asking, but no. I’ll let you know when things, um, change for the better.”

  I was going to click off but he stopped me.

  “Gemma, I don’t know what is going on, but I’m going to pray for you. Right now.”

  Awkward!

  “Uh, I don’t think—”

  “Just shut up and let me pray, okay?”

  I heard him mumble, something-something “stubborn” something “woman,” maybe the “somethings” being Spanish? I sighed and waited.

  “Father God, I don’t know what is going on with Gemma—but you do, because you know everything. I am asking, Lord, in the name of Jesus, that you help her. Show her the way. Give her direction. And point her to the Savior, Lord. I thank you that you hear me, and I know you are already working. I trust you, Lord. Amen.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t, really. I was too choked up.

  “Gemma? Are you still there?”

  “Uh-huh.” A sniff jumped out and I bit my lip to stop another.

  Zander’s voice gentled. “Whatever it is, Gemma, God has an answer. I promise.”

  “Thank you, Zander. Goodbye.”

  I didn’t believe him for a second.

  Chapter 19

  Dear Reader,

  Although it feels much longer, it’s been only about six weeks since Cushing’s men invaded Dr. Bickel’s lab under the mountain and my life changed so radically. I am, reluctantly, learning to deal with my new reality.

  We face off in daily skirmishes over one thing or another, the nanomites and I. By daily skirmishes, I refer to them objecting when I insist on stretching the limits of my freedom, and to me, in most instances, ignoring their protests.

  I believe I am prudent enough when I attempt something new, but I almost always suffer the discomfort of their complaints.

  Grrr.

  To be fair, they are quick to learn and adapt, and I think I see a pattern in their adaptive behavior. I’ve written how they don’t like it when I take a hot shower and they really hate when I blow-dry my hair, but they have grown less combative about it as the days go by. It’s the same after I try and succeed with a new venture out in public: It takes them a minute, but they eventually adjust to the idea.

  At least, sooner or later, they stop griping and haranguing me! And once in a while (I know you’ll think this is crazy) I get the eerie feeling, a creepy suspicion, that they have intervened. Helped me, in some way.

  I can’t explain it exactly, but I’m on the alert for it now. If I experience anything more concrete, I’ll write about it.

  The bottom line, I guess, is that we are not fighting each other as much as we were in the beginning. Yes, I most certainly resent their intrusion into my life, their hijacking of my body! If I knew how to rid myself of them, I would do it in a heartbeat.

  So while I wouldn’t call our cohabitation a “synergistic alliance,” we are—slowly—learning to “get along.” If Dr. Bickel were here, I think he would mark our report cards with “does not play nicely with others,” but we are managing, I guess.

  Along those lines, I will report that all my attempts to communicate with the nanomites have failed. I don’t understand why they’ve failed, since I have followed Dr. Bickel’s instructions and have tried every approach I can think of. Still, for all my efforts, I have received no response from the nanomites, save their initial “alertness” when I say, “Nano.” It’s discouraging and I think it strange, because I know they are intelligent and observant.

  Next subject.

  I’ve made some adjustments that should make my freedom of movement easier and less stressful. For instance, the guys came and installed the garage door opener I ordered. I asked for a super quiet opener, but the age of the door itself and the tracks by which the door went up and down were what made the most noise.

  Soooo, I bit the bullet and had them install a new door complete with new tracks. The total cost opened a big old sinkhole in my savings account. However, I can now raise the garage door from inside my house and I barely notice the sound. I removed the lightbulb from the opener, too, so that the garage stays dark when I’m leaving. Now maybe my ever-probing neighbor—with her face squished against her window—will be less likely to notice when I leave.

  Speaking of Mrs. Calde
rón, that busybody has doubled down on her intrusive efforts. I see her continually peeking out her blinds and she knocks on my door twice a day. I ignore her when she knocks, but I figure it must drive her nuts that she has nothing to report.

  Report? She and Genie have been thick as thieves since Genie and I were thirteen. I have no doubt that Mrs. Calderón provides Genie with regular updates about me. Mrs. Calderón feels honored that Genie “counts” on her. She actually feels that she has a special relationship with Genie! What she doesn’t understand is that Genie is simply using her. Genie is using Mrs. Calderón to keep tabs on me so that Genie is assured that I’m remaining a properly humbled failure—and so that I know that Genie is ever watching, ever-present in my life and affairs.

  How do I know this? Here’s one instance.

  Two years ago, Mrs. Calderón couldn’t wait to show me what Genie had sent her as a birthday gift: a lovely, vintage brooch set with sky-blue and amber stones. I had stared at the brooch, at first befuddled and then outraged.

  The antique piece had been one of Aunt Lu’s favorites. She had sent it to Genie not long before she’d died. I knew how special that brooch was and what Aunt Lu had meant the gift to convey. It was accompanied by a note in which Aunt Lu told Genie how very much she loved her and would always love her. I knew about the note because Aunt Lu, too weak to write it herself, had dictated it to me.

  Genie had not acknowledged the gift or the note. Instead, she had given the brooch to Mrs. Calderón, knowing our nosy neighbor would wear it proudly as a token of Genie’s “esteem.” Genie had given it to Mrs. Calderón knowing she would show it to me. Knowing I would receive the intended message.

  As for Mrs. Calderón and her spying, I worry a bit that she has nothing to report to Genie. A complete lack of information might make my twisted sister more curious. More aggressive.

  But back to my cool new garage door: It’s so quiet that I come and go at night with more confidence, and I make regular after-dark trips to my local Walmart Supercenter and elsewhere. I chafe at my self-imposed nighttime restriction, although I know it’s necessary. At night, unless my car is under lights, no one notices that the driver’s seat is “empty.”