“You know it’s a lot more complicated than that. Not during this campaign. I should have left him before all of this, but it’s just not possible now. Maybe after he loses, and I hope to God he does. If not, I’ve got at least four years of this ridiculous routine and putting on a happy face in public.”
“It’s abuse. It’s sexual and psychological abuse. You should leak what that goddamn pervert does to the media. And that he hits you sometimes if it doesn’t go well.”
“It’s only you, me, and him that know that, Mom. I only told you in case something happens to me some day, and you promised me you would never leak it. If it gets out, one of us is probably going to die.”
“Well, I hope he has a heart attack then, the filthy bastard.”
“Maybe I can help him with that tonight, with any luck. I love you, Mom. I’ve got to go.”
She returned to her rigorous routine, first correcting the mistake in her eyeliner. Her makeup had to be applied just right. Thomas would pick up on any discrepancy and fly into a rage, saying it was all ruined and it was her fault that he couldn’t perform. When she finished, she checked and double-checked every detail of the gaudy, overdone lipstick, eyelashes, eyeliner, and rouge.
Next, she began the part she hated most. She opened a drawer and pulled out a tray of 1950s rubber hair curlers. She wound each one tightly and carefully into place. When she was through, she put a hair-net over them and checked again in the mirror. I look fucking ridiculous.
She prepared her body for an assault on her flesh that she hoped wouldn’t come, then returned to the bedroom and opened a drawer. She withdrew a pair of vintage red flannel pajamas and dressed in them. Lastly, she pulled back the covers and slid into bed, hoping for the best.
While she tried to sleep, she went back over what had gotten her to this point in her life.
Mom’s right. I could’ve had everything on my own, but I took a chance to try to get those things the easy way. I should’ve had more confidence in myself. I swore I’d always be independent of any man; I would never be controlled. Now look at me—pathetic. How was I to know, though? He was charming and funny. He hid his ego well in those early days. I had no idea what a freak he was. I made the wrong choice.
She thought about what she’d said to her mother and played assassination scenarios through her mind to help keep her sanity. If someone would do that for me, I’d be free. And the country could escape a monster if he somehow manages to pull this damn thing off.
SHE WOKE WHEN SHE HEARD the bedroom door close, and saw him pass by in the dark on his way to the bathroom. He cursed and banged things around, and she knew it wasn’t going to go smoothly. She closed her eyes again, hoping to get back to sleep. He always knows when I’m faking. She prayed that he would come out and get into the bed and just go to sleep without bothering. I’ll know as soon as that door opens.
The bathroom door creaked open slightly, and he began. “Mommy? Are you there? It’s me. I’m home now.”
Shit. Catherine began her part in the charade. “Thomas? You’re late. It’s past curfew and well past your bedtime. Come here, young man.”
He crept to the bed, naked and cowering. “I’m sorry, Ma. I tried to get home on time, Ma.” He went around to his side and got into the bed.
She sat up. “Let me smell you, Thomas. Open your mouth and breathe, young man.”
He leaned over to her and did as she asked.
The stench was overwhelming, and she almost gagged and ruined the charade. She slapped him hard on the face. “You’re drunk, Thomas. You know that Mommy doesn’t like you to drink. You’re too young. You’ll ruin your life. You’re very bad, Thomas.”
He whimpered. “Don’t hit me, Mommy. Please don’t hit me.”
She could hear him rubbing himself, getting himself ready. She slapped him a second time, per the script. “You’re bad. Worthless.”
“I said don’t hit me, Mommy!” he screamed. He shoved her down, yanked off her pajama bottoms, and then flipped her over. He pulled her up on her knees, then pulled her legs apart and tried to enter her. He pushed and attempted to guide himself, but she could tell he was still only halfway there. He’s too damn drunk to get it up, again.
He became more frustrated, breaking the protocol slightly by cursing himself. He alternately tried to stimulate himself and rub against her, but to no avail. As she expected, he gave up and rolled back over on the bed on his stomach, crying. “Then punish me, Mommy. Go ahead, punish me. I deserve it.”
She reached over and slid open the nightstand drawer to remove the strap-on and lubricant. She copied his earlier steps, beginning by pulling him up on his knees.
She went at him furiously, reaching around to find him now erect. He was spent within a minute, and rolled over to sleep without saying a word.
Now that part I don’t mind. Catherine smiled and headed to the bathroom to shower.
20 Shopping
“This is the place, just up ahead,” the taxi driver said to Tommy. “Medical supply, right?”
“You got it, boss.” Tommy paid the man, leaving a generous tip. He exited and went into the store.
“Where’s the wheelchair section?” he asked the young clerk behind the register.
He followed the clerk’s guidance and looked over the selection.
The clerk followed him over. “We’ve got some great motorized models...”
“Not interested,” Tommy cut him off. “Self-propelled only.” He sat in a few of them, gauging their comfort and, more importantly, each one’s ability to conceal.
When he’d narrowed the selection down, he rolled up and down the aisle in each, varying his speed. He tried some quick exits, jumping up out of them, eliminating the ones that were too obstructive. After one such drill, he doubled over, winded and in pain.
The clerk watched him suspiciously. “You need an ambulance or something, mister?”
“No,” Tommy responded.
He finally found just the right one and wheeled himself up to the register in it. “I like this one. What about accessories? How do I carry my crap around?”
The clerk showed him a few tiller bags, including one that was designed to hang from the front, behind his legs.
“That one’s perfect. I’ll take it,” Tommy said.
The clerk rang up the sale. “You don’t seem like you need a wheelchair,” he said.
Tommy was annoyed at the invasive comment. “My condition gets worse every day. Mind your business, kid. Or you might need one.” He paid in cash, then sat in the wheelchair.
“Now call me one of those handicapped taxis that can handle this thing.”
THE DANK ARMY/NAVY store was full of memories. Tommy wheeled himself down the aisles, stopping to reminisce each time he saw an item that he had known or used so long ago. It seems like another lifetime.
“Help you, bub?” a grizzled old man said, approaching from the head of the aisle.
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “I’m going to the veteran's thing that Brand is having. All my stuff was lost in a fire a long time ago. I need to replace my uniform and medals.”
“Damn, ain’t you a lucky one. How the hell did you swing that? He’s one fine man. I wish I could get in on that. I’d like to shake his hand and thank him personally for standing up to these goddamn liberals and saying what needs to be said about all the fucking faggots, darkies, and foreigners that are taking over our country.”
Tommy worked hard to restrain himself. Don’t make a scene and blow it. Go along with him. Keep a low profile. “Just lucky, like you said. And damn straight about all that scum.”
“So, what can I do you for? What branch, which conflict were you?”
“Marines. ‘Nam. Between ‘67 and ‘69. I had a Purple Heart, Bronze Star, and a few other pins and medals.”
“I’ve got replicas of those, sure. I can help you with all that. Over here’s the Marine stuff from around then, as far as uniforms. You probably want dress blues for this event, it’s high class and all.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Tommy replied. He browsed through the racks from his wheelchair, annoyed that the man continued to hover over him.
“Listen, bub,” the shop owner continued. “You seem to be a guy like me. Proud of this country, proud of our service, proud of our heritage. Our white heritage. You down with that? Because if you are, we have a little group you might be interested in. We’re old-timers, so we don’t give a shit. We’re sort of the radical arm of the Brand Brigade.” He cackled at his own comment.
Tommy paused and thought for a moment. “Damn right, pal. What’s happening to our country is bullshit. I’m new around here—just retired. I’ve come down to get out of the cold, and I have plenty of time on my hands. I’m sick though, so I have a short runway. That makes me dangerous, if you know what I mean. Give me the skinny.”
They shook hands. “My name’s Ralph. We have a meetup coming. We use the back room here, after closing. There’s going to be a lot of those types I mentioned protesting the Brand event, like always. We’re gonna make a statement. I got my hands on some C-4 and a blast cap, but it’s dangerous shit, and nobody in our group knows how to work with it.”
“I’m Tommy. I’m your guy, then. I had my EOD—the crab badge. I was our unit’s ordinance man.”
The man smiled happily. “Ain’t that something! See, karma is real. Here you come rollin’ in here, just what we’re looking for.” He slapped Tommy on the shoulder.
“Damn right,” Tommy responded. “Karma sure is something.” As you’ll soon find out, asshole.
He wheeled down the aisles with his new friend until he had everything he needed.
As he checked out, he asked, “Two more things. Is there one of those places around here where I can get a temporary pay-as-you-go cell phone? I don’t have a phone in my new place, and I figured I’d try that. Also, where’s the nearest liquor store?”
Both places were within the adjacent downtown blocks. The man wrote him directions and agreed to hold his items until he came back for them.
The cell phone purchase was straightforward and discreet. Afterward, Tommy wheeled himself down the street to the liquor store and entered.
“What’s the best bourbon you have?” he asked the clerk.
“Not long ago,” she said, leaning down toward him from behind the counter, “we got a bottle of Martin Mills 24 Year. It’s legendary stuff, and very rare. It’s tough to sell around here though—$500 a bottle is too rich for most folks. It came out in 1999 after someone found an old cask. There are only a few hundred bottles in the world.”
“Yeah,” said another patron. “And a lot of fakes. It’s the Bigfoot of bourbon. Don’t get screwed, buddy, it’s probably counterfeit.”
“It sounds perfect,” Tommy said. This should make for a nice bribe to get where I need to go. “I’ll take it.”
BACK IN HIS ROOM, HE tried to step out of the wheelchair and found the effort difficult, requiring two attempts. His knees buckled, and his arms failed to push his own weight up and out. When he finally rose, he found himself winded and lay down on the bed before he could unpack his purchases from the bags that hung from the handles.
Waking hours later, he still felt exhausted and became concerned that his breathing was still labored. Thinking it might be due to the increased heat and humidity, he reached over and turned the dial on the window air conditioner next to his bed.
After lying still for a time, hoping it would go away, he began to panic. Time to break out the heavy weapons. About a week left, and I need to be stronger.
He went to the sea bag and retrieved a plastic case. He opened it, exposing several small syringes—the steroid injections prescribed by Dr. Mason, which he had saved for this time he knew would come. One a day for the rest of the way out should get me through.
He took one and injected himself, then opened a bottle of B12 vitamins, took several, and placed the bottle next to the others he took each day.
21 Questioners
Business at the market was slow. Life seemed empty since Tommy had left. Tara still hadn’t recovered, and she missed him badly. She sat in her stall at the farmer’s market with Whitey on her lap.
“He’ll come back, buddy. He hinted he would. He’s just got something to take care of, he said. And he’ll come back to us. I know he will, Whitey.”
The dog looked up at her and licked her arm. She rose and put him down to get back to work. Micco passed by, and she shouted a greeting to him.
“Any news on your beau?” he stopped to ask.
“No, Micco. Just the vague letter he left. He had something to do before he got too sick. He’ll be back, I know it. I just know it.”
“I hope so, Tara. I liked that guy, and he bought lots of fish. Did he give any hint how he got out of here or where he went?”
“No. Hopefully he didn’t go far, and we’ll see him back around soon.”
They both went about their business. Traffic picked up, and it helped to pass the time. When the day drew near its end, she walked outside the stall to stretch. Looking down the row of other stands, she noticed two men in suits. They were talking to Micco, and one was holding up a badge.
She casually walked back into the stall and stashed Whitey in the back room. She gave the dog a treat and filled his water bowl. “Now keep quiet, Whitey. Please. It’s important.”
She went back into the stall and began sorting through her products, placing the ones that were no longer saleable into a burlap sack. She glanced down the row again. The men were now at Mrs. Park’s booth, and she was out front with them, talking animatedly. Tara saw her motion in her stall’s direction and ducked back out of sight before the men could turn to follow the gesture.
I’ve got to think, quickly.
She continued to sort until she turned and found them facing her. “Hello, handsome gentlemen. Care for some fresh organic fruit? It’s got none of that poison in it that the stuff from the grocery store has. I have free samples, what do you think?”
They waited through her comments, humorless. One of them held up the badge. “We’re with the FBI. We’re looking for a man who might have passed through this way, or could still be in the area.”
The other man held up a picture of Tommy. It appeared to be a picture taken when he retired, as he was still in uniform. He was close to the same age, but well-groomed and far better for wear and tear than the Tommy she knew.
“Wow. Yep, that’s Tommy alright. He was here for a few days. Then, like most who pass through, he was gone. We get a lot of that—vacationers, vagabonds, retirees on their way down to Key West.”
“How well did you know him, ma’am?”
She knew it was a trick question, and her response would have to match up with whatever the other vendors had told them. She knew they had all seen her and Tommy together. She stayed in character.
“Look, sugar. Like I said, they come, and they go. I’m kinda flirtatious; it helps to sell the goods, if you know what I mean. Fruits and veggies, veggies and fruits.
“The guy was around for a few days, we hung out a little. Nothing serious. Then he split. At least that’s what I’m guessing. I haven’t seen him in a few days. I suppose he could still be around, and just not hungry for what I’m selling. He didn’t say much about himself. Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye at all, actually. Now, how about some of these ripe, delicious melons, fellas?”
They looked at each other, then thanked her for her help and continued on to the next stall.
ANOTHER DAY PASSED, and it still hurt, surprisingly. Maybe he’s not coming back. She lay on her bed in the early morning, trying to convince herself to rise and lead the tai chi class on the beach. It was hard to do anything without thinking about him, reliving their short list of memories, and wondering where he was and whether he was okay.
As she often did, she replayed their perfect days together just before he left. She wished they had a lifetime of days like that. Perhaps they would, in the hereafter,
as he had mused while they sat on the beach the night they drank the peyote tea.
The phone rang, and she rose to answer it. Whitey jumped out of her way and quickly moved to lie on the warm spot she’d vacated, laying his head on her pillow. “Let’s see, will it be the mother or the child this time,” she said to herself as she picked up the receiver.
“Hey, I love you,” he said.
She fell back onto the bed, remembering Whitey at the last minute, just missing him. “Tommy. I love you. Please come back.”
“I will...I’ll try. You were right about the medicine, Tara. I’m going downhill. I feel it more every day. My stamina is failing, and I’m hurting. I’m sick, Tara. I wish I could do everything over and have a life with you. But I’m gonna try to get back there.”
“Be careful, Tommy. The FBI was looking around here, asking about you. I’m sure they have a lot going on besides that, and they were a couple of young guys who seemed to just be going through the motions. But you should know they’re on your trail.”
“Damn it. Alright, I don’t need much more time. I’ll tell you what. I’ll signal you, and we’ll meet back on the small key we stayed at. If I can make it, that is.”
“You will, Tommy. I know you will. Please come back to me soon.”
“It’s all I want right now,” he said. “I can’t call you again if they’ve been around looking for me. It’ll take them another day or so, but they’ll probably tap your line if they think we’re involved. I’m using disposable phones, but they could still record every conversation you have. Be careful. I love you.”
The line went dead, and she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.
22 Campaign HQ
Chaos ruled as the campaign team scrambled to set up their office space for the event, with only days remaining. The advance team had done a good job, but much was left to be accomplished in the remaining stretch.
Brenda ducked into her office for a break from the noise. She saw Stinson passing by and motioned him to join her. He came in, closing the door behind him.
Vigilante Angels Trilogy Page 38
