The sun was only beginning to light the sky, but I searched in my purse for some dark glasses anyway. I managed to hide my hands in my coat pockets and hurried to the facilities. My heart beat so fast I thought it would jump out of my chest. A twinge of relief swept over me as I discovered the bathroom was one of those one-room deals. I locked the door and washed up. Nothing came out of the hot water faucet, so I ran my bloodstained hands under freezing cold water. Once I removed the blood and splashed the chilly water on my face, I stared at myself in the mirror. Both eyes—swollen from crying—were in need of some make-up, but my left eye—black and blue, and almost swollen completely shut—was beyond help. I wasn’t going to be able to do much about my eye except wear dark glasses, which somehow miraculously covered most of it.
No more tears, I ordered myself. It’s over. Was he dead? I hoped he was dead. I had to have killed him. My emotions—convoluted with anger and fear—dominated my judgment, giving me courage to go on. I’d never considered myself weak, to allow a man to have such complete and utter control over me—to beat me whenever he had the whim. How the hell had that happened?
Well, that person was gone and I didn’t want to be weak anymore. I lifted my glasses, studied my eye again, and thought of my mother—she’d been weak, I remembered. The vision of my stepfather beating my mother to death invaded my mind. I was nine at the time, and sat cowering in the corner, praying he wouldn’t come at me when he’d finished with her. I’d watched him slap my mom around before, and she’d always been able to recover. But that last time, he’d gone too far. I watched as my mother fell to her knees, clutching her stomach as his foot came off the ground and struck her in the face. She’d fallen backwards and her head hit the edge of the red, brick hearth of the fireplace. I covered my eyes and screamed as blood spewed out all over the bricks and the worn out, dingy cream carpet. A neighbor heard the screaming and called the police. They’d gotten there in time for me, but too late for my mother.
I’d been on my own since I was eighteen after enduring one foster home after another, never really fitting in. But at the tender age of fourteen I’d found my niche. An old discarded second-hand guitar I’d discovered in someone’s trash became my savior. As long as I had a guitar in my hands nothing else mattered. After a few months of living with some friends and several temporary gigs here and there, I’d been lucky enough to find a spot with a smalltime band singing and playing lead-guitar. They called themselves The Magic Crew. They were good too, on their way to stardom, and I was right there with them until Troy Harington showed up and swept me off my feet.
It seemed as if it had all been a dream as I thought about how he’d manipulated me into believing he loved me. Handsome? Oh yeah, he was handsome with his six-foot muscle-bound frame and curly brown hair. He had dark blue eyes that could lure a fish out of the water, and lips that could talk their way in or out of any situation that might arise. Girls flocked to his side whenever he came around to listen to us play, begging him to dance with them. Like all the other girls I’d found him irresistible, and he’d chosen me over all of them. How lucky. But I soon learned it was all a subterfuge when his charm turned to violent domination.
I secretly planned and saved money over several months. A little here, a little there. I’d sneak it out of the allowance he gave me to purchase food so he wouldn’t catch on. I even managed to acquire a fake ID from Weezer, a friend from my days in The Magic Crew. Weezer’s real name was Wesley, but everyone called him Weezer because of his asthma, which he kept under control with his inhaler. Most times. Sometimes it got bad during certain months like springtime and fall. I’d taken him into the emergency room more than once for breathing treatments. He never seemed to mind the nickname. In fact, Weezer was the name he used when he introduced himself to people. He supplied the ID with no questions asked. I think he already knew why I wanted it, but before he would let me have it he made me promise that if I ever left town to let him know where I went. I agreed, but I knew I wouldn’t tell him, at least not right away. It was better if he didn’t know in case Troy ever questioned him.
I hadn't planned to leave just yet though. I would have preferred to have saved more money and had a packed suitcase ready and hidden somewhere. That last idea was a risky one, and I never got the nerve to pack one. Troy started with that same backhanded slap across my cheek—and I knew it well—but when he threw me across the room and my head smacked against the wall, the decision became a now or never deal, even with bruises and a black eye. And what was that pain in my side? Troy had been more dangerous than ever before. Killing him before he killed me seemed like my only option. Kill him and run. The words I'd said to myself right before I stabbed him. I ran, leaving everything except the coat on my back and my stash of cash.
I stepped out of the restroom and clutched my coat tightly against the bite of the wind. It was still early in the morning; clouds surrounded the sun, caressing it with cotton pillows as it began to peek from behind the mountains. I suffered the cold, reached in my purse, pulled out my cell phone and dialed a taxi service.
“Yeah, uh, can you send a cab to …” I glanced up at the sign at the small convenience store, “… the Stop N Shop on the corner of Golden and Spruce? … Okay. Fifteen minutes? Great. Thanks. I’ll be waiting beside a black Explorer. … No. I don’t need a tow truck. It’s not my car. I’ll just be standing by it. … Yeah. Thanks.”
Chapter 3
Jackson
I hadn’t had a chance to talk to my brother this morning considering the red scarf on his doorknob. The scarf was a don’t-bother-me-I-have-company warning. I wondered who the lucky chick was this time. Or should I say “unlucky.” My brother never had sex with the same woman more than twice before he’d move on, leaving a path of broken hearts in his wake. Brodie’d had some major commitment issues for the past couple of years.
The lights were on, which meant either he showed or had left the lights on last night. I stood studying the room, and heard a grunt and then the shatter of glass come from the back room behind the bar. I had just come in to take advantage of the acoustics, and to make sure Brodie showed up in time to meet the morning beer delivery. I owned the small pub but seldom worked in it. Aside from keeping track of the finances, the most I ever did was occasionally play my guitar on the small stage toward the back with the band. Every so often I’d fill in behind the bar on a busy Friday or Saturday night, but I left most of the bartending to Brodie and other employees.
“Shit,” Brodie’s irritated curse rang out from the room. I hurried to the stage and leaned my guitar against a chair. I’d planned to take advantage of my early morning trip to the bar to get some much needed practice in since the sound system was better here than at home. I strolled to the back room to find Brodie crouched over a toppled over case of beer. Foaming beer with shards of broken brown glass pooled around his black high tops.
“What happened?”
“That’s a stupid question. What the hell do you think happened?”
“Maybe you need to spend more time at the gym and less time in the boudoir, sweet brother o’ mine.”
“Fuck you.”
I chuckled and got a bucket for the broken bottles. “Looks like half the case is gone.”
“Yeah, but I think we still got enough to get us through until the next delivery. I’ll push the Hefeweizen today.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed. I always let Brodie make most of those decisions anyway. He ran the bar. He enjoyed it. I didn’t. I helped him pick up the broken bottles and stack the good ones into the fridge.
“Thanks,” he said, then stopped to stare at me. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came in to check out a song I’ve been toying with. The sound system is better here.”
He nodded. “Do me a favor, check Derrick’s figures from last night, will you?” We got slammed, and we sort of closed up in a hurry.”
“Because you had a …”
“A date, yeah.”
“That’s an exaggeration of the word.”
“Whatever. Hey, man, I don’t interfere with your sex life, or lack of. By the way, you need to get laid pretty soon or you’re liable to spontaneously combust from sperm buildup.” He laughed.
“I have my share. I just don’t go blabbing about it to you.”
“That’s because nobody wants to hear about how tight you grip yourself when you’re not hugging your guitar.”
I flipped him off as I strolled out toward the stage, shaking my head and laughing to myself at our warped display of brotherly love, but Brodie had a point. It had been awhile since I had the pleasure of being with a woman, but Brodie had enough for both of us. I didn’t need or want any one-nighters.
I took the guitar out of its case, wanting to play for a while, but stood it back up against the chair again remembering the register. I cursed silently and turned back toward the bar. Work before play, I reminded myself. Brodie and I were close, and even though we teased each other, we were brothers and looked out for one another. We were all we had, and I worried about Brodie and his promiscuity sometimes.
Chapter 4
Lena
I sat on the curb, took the battery out of my cell phone, and picked up a rock while I waited for the taxi. I smashed the dinky cheap phone, shattering the plastic casing until it lost all semblance of any form of communication. Bits and pieces of pink plastic, a smashed LCD screen swirling with blue liquid, and thin wires dangling with tiny parts I didn’t have a clue about lay scattered in the gutter. I gathered them all up and stood, chucking the whole mess in the bushes. I’d worry about saving the planet another time. My phone hadn’t been anything fancy, but it did have GPS. Just in case I hadn’t killed Troy, I didn’t want him to find me—or the police, in case he was dead. That would make me a murderer. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about that. I locked the SUV, and threw the keys in my purse, better not to leave them anywhere near the vehicle. Not that it mattered—he had a second set. Then I reconsidered ... Why not? And dropped the keys on the ground in hopes someone would come along and steal the damn thing giving me an extra edge in my escape.
The taxi pulled into the station and stopped just inches in front of me. The driver rolled down the window and smiled, his bushy gray mustache hugged the sides of his lips in a Yosemite Sam fashion. He reminded me of a picture I’d once seen of a little girl reaching her arms up toward an older man I’d presumed to be the girl’s grandfather.
“Morning, ma’am, you call for a taxi?”
“Yeah, thanks for coming so quickly.” I slid into the back seat keeping my head and eyes down. The warmth of the cab felt good, and I rubbed my hands together combating the chill that seemed to linger in them from the cold bathroom water.
“No worries. I’d hate to be standing out there waiting for a taxi in the middle of the night for very long. Came as quickly as I could. Where you headed?”
I thought I’d head south into California. I didn’t think this taxi driver would want to go that far, so I figured a bus or train would be my best option. “Do you know where the nearest bus stop is?”
“Well, now,” he said, fingering his mustache, “You’d best go to the bus terminal. It’s about twenty minutes from here.” The driver’s silver-white hair glistened, and his dark brown eyes twinkled, as he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. He was friendly and full of chitchat, not requiring much interaction from me. For that, I was extremely grateful—in fact, he practically conducted the entire conversation alone. We reached the bus station, and I paid him the twenty-seven dollars showing on his meter, plus tipped him an additional five.
“Thanks. Now you just go in and ask for the South bound bus. They’ll take care of you.”
“Thanks,” I returned, exiting the warmth of the taxicab. My fingers were still frozen, so I shoved them into my coat pockets and headed inside toward the sign that said, “Tickets.”
The bus came roaring into the terminal just as I finished paying. I ran to the curb as the doors hissed open and I stepped up, dropping the ticket into the slot. Conscious of my appearance I kept my face toward the floor and walked toward the back.
The bus was almost empty except for a couple of women. A middle-aged woman whose caramel colored face gave me a thin smile as she clutched a large, grey, over-stuffed canvas bag closer to her. The bag took up the entire seat next to her. I continued down the aisle passing a young, blonde-haired woman holding the chubby hand of a small boy who sat next to her. His eyes focused on me as he squirmed out of her grasp and turned in his seat to watch me sink into the seat two rows behind him.
“Turn around, Sammy,” the woman next to him scolded. He ignored her request and continued to stare at me. I gave him a small smile, and then scooted over to the seat next to the window so I could stare out at the road. I sighed. I was on my way. Resting my head against the cold glass I stared out at the old brick building of the bus terminal until it was no longer within my sight, saying goodbye to that life. To a life where every day I worried about whether or not I’d be slapped or punched in the face, tossed across the room, or kicked in the side.
I tried not to think about the possibility of the police looking for me as soon as they discovered Troy’s body. I didn’t know how long that would be since we never socialized much, the bruises on my face preventing such conventional activities as get-togethers, and friends were a thing of the past.
I let the ride soothe my nerves as the bus lumbered its way down the highway. Trees blurred as we skated past them. I was exhausted, and eventually the purr of the engine must have lured me to sleep. The sudden jolt of a stop and the hissing sound of the doors opening startled me awake. I glanced around, not sure how long I’d been riding. A surge of hope formed in my heart, and I got excited when I saw the two signs on the side of the road. Millstop two miles, the other, Jessie’s Used Cars. Perfect, I just hoped I’d saved up enough money to buy something decent.
I gathered up my purse and rose, happy to discover the bus was now empty. I stepped down the large steps and walked across the street to the small but clean-looking used car dealership. As I strolled onto the lot, I spotted a 2002 dark blue Subaru four-door hatchback. The bright letters painted across the windshield, $5,000. Just reduced to $2,000.
“Here we go,” I whispered, reminding myself to be calm. I approached a man in a grey suit standing by the open glass door to a building that housed a couple other nicer looking cars. His opened jacket revealed a blue and white-spotted tie that was tucked into his pants. “Excuse me. I’m interested in that blue Subaru out there.”
The salesclerk eyed me sympathetically. “I take it you were in an accident recently,” he said, smiling. “Totaled your car?”
“Yeah, the guy came out of nowhere,” I said, taking advantage of the supplied excuse for the way I must have looked. It sounded like a reasonable explanation for my condition, and one I would probably use over the next several days.
After we finished all the necessary paperwork using my fake ID—Lana Martin, my mother’s maiden name—for the registration, I handed over the cash, and he plopped the keys into my hand. He never questioned the fact that I paid in full, with cash, but then I suppose two thousand dollars wasn’t really all that much money.
As I waited for the clerk to clean the writing off the windshield, I went into the bathroom and cut up all my credit cards—they were in Troy’s name anyway—and flushed them down the toilet a few pieces at a time so I wouldn’t clog the plumbing. If I was careful, I might make it through the week, giving me time to find employment somewhere in some town. I was out of Oregon now and somewhere in California. I had no idea how far into the state I actually was, though I didn’t think very far. I sort of remembered seeing the “Welcome to California” sign not very long ago. When I came out of the bathroom, I stopped in front of a large display holding different brochures for things to do in Northern California. I tilted my sunglasses up a little to see what they were, and smiled when my eyes fel
l on the words, “State of California.” I snatched the map up, and making sure my shades were back in position, held up the folded booklet and turned to the girl at the counter in the lobby. “How much?”
“Five dollars.”
“I reached into my bag, pulled out a five, and laid it on the counter.
“Plus forty-one cents tax,” she said with a smile.
I groped around the bottom of my purse, hoping there were a couple of quarters down there. I found two and handed her both of them. “Thanks,” I said when she gave me my change. I walked out of the building and headed to my new car.
My hands shook as I steered the small hatchback out of the parking lot, still unsure of where I was heading. I wanted to get away from the dealership quickly before allowing myself to study the map. I didn’t want to cause any unnecessary suspicion of someone realizing I had no idea where I was, just in case I hadn’t covered my tracks well enough. I had approximately two-hundred dollars in cash left after the purchase of the car. Not much, but maybe I’d get lucky and find work fast enough.
After what felt like hours on the Interstate, I decided to make a change, and turned onto Highway 89. If Troy was still alive, or even if he wasn’t, I didn’t want him—or anyone—to find me, so I figured the more turns I took the better. After a while, I turned off the highway and onto a small winding road, which seemed to go on forever until I finally came to an intersection. Main Street lay before me, and I turned left, heading east. It was near nine o’clock in the morning. My side ached, and I was having difficulty breathing. I had a sick feeling my rib was badly bruised, possibly broken, and exhaustion crept into my body as I drove through a small town. It’s funny how hard adrenalin pumps the blood during moments of extreme fear and stress. I smiled at the little sign posted on the right side of the street. “Welcome to Turtle Lake.” The sign pictured silhouetted bodies, fishing, golfing and hunting, and a turtle, of course. It looked like it just might be the friendliest place on earth. I smiled as I passed another sign with a picture of a huge boxer turtle waving, with a bubble comment that said, “Population 573.” I scanned the sides of the street searching for a place to get a cup of coffee—some place dark preferably.
Beautifully Wounded (The Beaumont Brothers) Page 2
