Cruel Water (Portland, ME, novels Book 2)

by Freya Barker

  I’m about to pull in behind the pub, when I see a guy crouching down beside the dumpster. His head whips around the moment he hears my approach, and he takes off running, leaving behind a small box he was holding. I barely have time to set the bike on the kickstand, and yank off my helmet, before he disappears around the front of the building. A closer look at the box has my blood boiling. In large block letters, it has Viv’s name spelled out. Without another thought, I take off after him. Coming to the end of the alley, the wharf in front of me is empty. My first instinct is to head right and back up the public pathway running there, but the sounds coming from the opposite side make me reconsider. It could be the wind causing the gate on that side to rattle, but I’m not taking any chances. The moment I turn the corner, I spot the idiot trying to hoist himself over the chain-link fence. In his panic he must’ve bypassed the public access path and instead was hoping for a quiet getaway around the other side. He’d obviously not counted on the gate. Before he has a chance to act, I’m on him, pulling him down by the back of his shirt.

  I’m not sure what I am expecting, possibly that son of a bitch ex of Viv’s, but I’m surprised when it’s a young kid who turns around and swings at me. That moment of surprise costs me when I am a fraction too late avoiding the oncoming fist. It connects solidly with my jaw, stunning me enough for him to slip from my grasp and bail.

  I catch up with him just as he’s rounding the other side of the pub, trying to dart through the alley. Once again, I haul him back by the collar, the kid really no match for my larger frame, although he has a mean left hook.

  “Let me go, you asshole,” he yells. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “Then why were you running?” I bite off, dragging him with me to the front of the pub. He struggles fiercely, but this time my hold on him is secure. I finally manage to get the door open one-handedly, with a little help from a strong gust. A group of people is blocking my view of the bar, so I call out for Gunnar. To my surprise, the first person to push through the crowd is not Gunnar, but Viv.

  “What the hell, Ike?” she demands. With the wind blowing the short blond locks around her face and her hands on her hips, she really does look like a siren. “So much for Gunnar putting the boards up when you’re just gonna let the weather in the front door!” Her fire puts a smile on my face, but the youngster still struggling to get loose draws her attention. “Who’s that?”

  “Good question,” Gunnar’s voice rumbles from behind her. “You bellowed?” he quips, an eyebrow raised.

  “Can you come out here for a minute?” I ask him, trying to urge him with a chin lift. He looks from the kid, to me, and then Viv before turning his eyes back on mine.

  “Lead the way,” he directs at me, following me out the door and closing it firmly behind us. “The fuck is going on, brother?”

  “Found this little bastard when I was parking my bike out back. He dropped a box with Viv’s name on it when he heard me and took off. Idiot tried to get over the fence next door when I caught him.” I head around the corner, still dragging the kid along, who had stopped struggling when Gunnar took hold of his arm on the other side.

  “I didn’t do nothin’!” the little punk pipes up. “All I did’s drop the box off where the guy said.”

  Gunnar stops and swings the kid around with his back to the fence beside the dumpsters, bracing his forearm against his scrawny neck. “What guy?”

  The kid’s eyes flit back and forth, trying to avoid looking at either of us, but a little added force on his neck has them bulging out of his head.

  “Who!” Gunnar yells in his face.

  “Dunno him. The dude rents a room at the Knight’s Inn my mom works at, on the south side of town. Said it was a simple drop off. Said I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.” His voice has taken on a whiny quality that grates on my nerves.

  Just as I’m about to open my mouth to ask for a description, the back door to the pub opens.

  “Gunnar! What’s going on?” Gunnar’s wife is standing in the doorway, with thunder in her eyes.

  “Bird, I’m just ...”

  The momentary distraction gives the punk enough of a window to twist loose and haul off. I immediately turn to follow him down to the parking lot, but Gunnar calls me back. “Ike! Leave it. Don’t think you’re gonna get much more that’s useful out of him. Let’s deal with this box.”

  When I meet him by the back door, he’s whispering to his wife, the box clutched in his hand. “Go on,” he says to her. “Keep her out of my office.” With a roll of her eyes, Syd walks ahead down the hallway to the bar, conceivably to keep Viv occupied, while Gunnar opens a door on the right. “In here.”

  He walks up to the desk and sets the box down. It’s a decorative box; green, about eight inches square with a hinged lid. When I reach to open it, Gunnar stops me.

  “Don’t. Just in case. Let me take some pictures first,” he says, as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts snapping. Then he grabs a letter opener from his desk and flips the lid with that. “Son of a fucking bitch,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “Gonna kill that fucker.”

  Inside the box is a stack of photographs, the top one depicting a very naked Viv, tied spread-eagled to a bed. Her body is covered in bruises and her eyes are so swollen, you can’t even tell what color they are. Written across that, in red marker, the words:

  A REMINDER

  With my vision blurred and blood roaring in my ears, I haul out and knock the box and contents clear across the room. I make another swipe with my arm, but am stopped midway when Gunnar grabs hold of my arm. “Stop. Get yourself the fuck together, you’re gonna have everyone come running. Don’t want her to see this, do you?”

  Viv. Jesus, my poor Viv. I raise my hands to show him I’m done. He cautiously lets me go before walking over to where the pictures are now strewn across the floor. From the expression on his face, the rest of them are not much better. I get down on my knees beside him and start picking up some that are closest to me. Pictures of Viv tied down or held down in degrading positions, a lot of them with injuries visible on her body or face. Even some of her in a hospital bed, a blank, dispassionate look in her eyes. Almost dead. It’s obvious from the images these were taken over the span of at least a few years. Viv’s hair is different in most of them. Long and falling straight down her shoulders, or in curls, and changing color regularly. It becomes painfully clear suddenly why she keeps it short these days. The fucker obviously had a thing for long hair. By the time Gunnar plucks the stack I’ve gathered out of my hands, my chest hurts and my eyes burn. When I look at him, I can see his are moist as well.

  He sticks the photographs back in the box and runs his hand over his head. “I had no idea,” his voice croaks. “Don’t know what I thought, but this is so far beyond anything I could’ve conjured up, I just ...” His voice trails off as he shakes his head. Leaving the box on the floor, he pulls himself up on his chair and opens a drawer, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers. With shaking hands, he pours two stiff drinks and shoves one in my direction. I sit down across from him and toss it back. I don’t know if it’s the burn of the alcohol or the images of Viv that has tears rolling down my face, but it’s obvious enough for Gunnar to reach over and grab a box of tissues off the bookshelf.

  “Her family can never see these. Hell, I don’t want Viv to see them, but I have to call the police and they will want to have details. I fucking hate this.” He tosses his own drink back, slams the empty glass on the desk and uses his desk phone to dial out. By the time he hangs up, I’m more or less composed again.

  “We’re lucky—Michael Bragdon is coming in himself. He’s a friend. He’ll be considerate, but we still have to let her in on this. And I think you should do it.”

  I’m surprised, and although I’m not voicing it, it must be obvious.

  “Look,” Gunnar rests his elbows on the desk and leans in. “I’m like her brother. Seeing her naked like that, I ... it’ll be ba
d enough for her without having me see them with her. You ... you’re different. You’ve seen her ... before.” He gestures at the box on the floor as he stammers through his words. So unlike the massive and gruff man he presents. He’s badly shaken, just like I am.

  Fucking hell.

  “Better get her in here before the cop shows up.” I nod at Gunnar, not nearly feeling as confident as I’m trying to sound. He stands up and moves to the door right away, only pausing to give me one last look before he walks out. Leaving me to stare at the box on the floor, but only for a minute before I get up and retrieve it, placing it on the desk.

  “What’s going on?” I hear Viv’s voice, along with the low rumble of Gunnar’s. The door is pushed open and both walk in. I don’t hesitate, but take two steps to get to her and pull her against me. “Ike? What’s going on, you guys?”

  Hearing the edge of panic in her tone, I quickly start talking. “Some kid dropped off a box by the back door. I snagged him before he could run away. He was just a stupid kid doing a job for someone else, for money.” Instead of fear, I see anger in Viv’s face.

  “It’s that son of a bitch, isn’t it?” She looks from me to Gunnar and back before her eyes travel to the box on the desk. Gunnar backs out of the room before she reaches to open the box. Wanting to slow things down, I put my hand over hers on the lid, keeping it shut.

  “Viv, baby—it’s bad.” I feel a moment’s hesitation before she pulls away from my restraining hand and flips open the lid. Gunnar put the first picture back on top and Viv picks it up. A shiver runs visibly down her body, before she seems to pull herself together and says, matter-of-factly, “He sure did a number on me, didn’t he? I can’t remember him taking pictures, though, but it doesn’t surprise me. He always liked to admire his handiwork.”

  Her cool detachment makes me nervous. This is so not what I was expecting.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Viv

  It feels like all the blood drains from my body when I get my first glimpse of the pictures in that damn box. I try to stay detached, but each image brings back the memories associated with it: the fear, the pain, the humiliation. Outwardly, I make sure I show no reaction. I’m well aware of the effect seeing them must’ve had on Gunnar, and oh my God, Ike. I don’t want to see pity, shame, or hurt in either of their faces. Luckily Gunnar has slipped out behind me, but the raw emotion in Ike’s face is almost too much to deal with. Buck up, girl—tough it out. Nothing showing in these pictures comes close to the kind of sick depravation I’d already been subjected to before these were even taken. No images exist of the violations that had left invisible scars on my very soul. These were just physical manifestations, but the real damage had been done even before Frank had his way with me. Maybe that’s why. Maybe I’d lost my worth years prior and had convinced myself I didn’t deserve any better. Guilt? Was there part of me that felt responsibility? All I see is weakness and capitulation. Someone who’d already given up.

  With a sigh I close the box and turn to Ike, who is watching me with a mix of compassion and what? Regret? God, I can’t blame the man. Who’d want ...

  “Stop that. Stop thinking what you’re thinking,” he growls. “‘Cause whatever it is, it’d be so far from the truth, it’s not funny.” With both hands he reaches out for me, and I can’t help the little step back. Ike simply reaches further and grabs my shoulders, shaking me lightly. “What I’m thinking is how fucking incredible it is—how amazingly courageous it is—that you managed to come back from that. The way you are? Babe, you’ve gotta know how much respect I have for your strength.”

  I know I’m gaping at him, but I can’t seem to help it. Say what? Does he not realize I willingly stayed in that situation for years? Can he not tell those pictures span at least five years, if not longer? I open and close my mouth like a fish several times before I can get any sound out. “But I stayed.”

  Last thing I expected was the low chuckle that rumbled up from deep inside his chest.

  “No,” he says firmly. “You left. You got out—got away from that sick lowlife.” There’s no denying the venom in his tone. “Fuck, Viv. If only you could see what I see when I look at you.” With a firm tug he pulls me against his chest, his arms banding tightly around me, and something inside me desperately wants to confide in him. I want him to know that what’s in that damn box is only the top layer of this fucked-up onion of my life. Instead, I squeeze my lips together and press my face to his shoulder, soaking up the comfort he offers. Weak.

  -

  After reassurances there’s no reason to call my brothers or Pam, for that matter, Gunnar finally lets me leave.

  The police have come and gone, and taken the pictures with them, as well as the information Gunnar had gleaned from the kid. With a bit of luck, Officer Bragdon said, they’d be able to pick up my ex at the motel. Worst case scenario was still not bad, I guess, because in leaving those images with me, he just put a nail in his own coffin. They are to be shared with the Los Angeles ADA in charge of the assault case against him there. He’s inadvertently done the opposite of what he’d intended. He was never the sharpest knife in the block. Violent—yes, cruel—undoubtedly, but bright—not really. Still, as I’m well aware, he doesn’t have to be intelligent to be vicious.

  Which is why I don’t object when Ike insists on walking me home, even though I simply want to go home, curl up in bed, and try to get myself back under control. If I don’t, the lid might pop off completely, and there will be no coming back from that. But when we reach my door, Ike holds up his hand for the keys. It’s clear he’s planning to come in.

  “Thanks for everyth—” I try to stop him from coming in, but he’s anticipating it, taking the wind right out of my sails.

  “If you think for even a minute that I’m leaving ...” he says, glaring at me before he snatches the keys from my hand and unlocks the door, pushing me inside.

  “I’m fine,” I protest when he swings me around to face him.

  “I know you’re fine. I’m not fine, though. I’m nowhere near fine. The only thing that’s going to make me feel remotely better, is being able to ensure you stay fine.” He tilts up my chin with his forefinger and leans his forehead against mine. Our eyes are so close, I can see every detail in his. Every emotion is on full display in his light gray ones. Pain, worry, and perhaps a little bit of something else. Need?

  “Please, let me stay.” The words are said so quietly, almost breathlessly, and I feel them in my heart. So I respond in the simplest way I can—by softly touching my lips to his.

  Without any need for words, we head straight to my bedroom, where we each take our turn in the bathroom. Emotionally drained, I roll toward him when he slips under the covers and fall into a deep sleep the moment he wraps me up in his warmth.

  -

  “I know you’re awake.” The familiar voice causes goose bumps to break out over my skin.

  I’d heard the turning of the knob on my door and quickly rolled up in a ball on my side, my covers drawn tight over my ear. Not tonight, please not tonight. Fickle wishes, because I should know by now nothing will stop him. The soft tread of his feet on the carpet, as he comes closer, is evidence of that. But instead of continuing, they stop at the foot of the bed. Did he change his mind?

  “My pretty princess Vivvy, so innocent.”

  I have to resist the repulsion at the use of that name I’ve come to hate. I still hang on to the futile hope he’ll just leave me be tonight, but that hope is quickly replaced by dread as I feel the covers being lifted off my feet and slowly drawn up over my body until my head is the only thing covered. The thick layer of bedding makes it hard to breathe, but I’ve learned that to struggle only means prolonging the inevitable. As hands stroke up my legs, I force my body not to react. I fight the will to struggle and kick out. No one would believe me if I told them. No one. I’d tried once ...

  -

  With a gasp, I shoot up straight in bed, a little disoriented until I hear Ike’s sl
eepy rumble from beside me. “Sleep, baby. It’s just the wind.”

  Sure enough, a strong wind is howling outside my apartment building. He must’ve thought that was what woke me up. Slipping out of bed, I walk to the window and peek out. It’s dark, but the streetlamps lining the wharf stay on all night. I can see the churning water in the spread of their light. The sea is angry. The water cruel and unforgiving.

  Turning back from the mesmerizing sight, I grab some random clothes off the floor, while keeping an eye on the man in my bed. He seems to have fallen asleep again, oblivious to the storm raging outside or the one tearing me up inside. Unaware that with every piece he chips away from the icy shell around my heart, he’s releasing an eruption of hot, festering anger and pain hidden underneath.

  Ike

  I know the bed is empty, the moment I open my eyes. The sheets are cool to the touch and I lie back, listening for the sounds of movement elsewhere in the apartment, but it’s hard to hear anything over the whistling of the storm. It looks like it’s still dark outside, but I’m not sure of the time. Grappling around on the floor beside the bed, I finally come up with my jeans and dig my phone out of the pocket. Five-thirty. Way too early to be up and about, but I swing my legs over the side of the bed anyway, an uneasy feeling pushing me.

  The apartment is abandoned, much as I suspected. The uneasy feeling is growing into genuine concern. Where is Viv? The butt-crack of dawn and a storm raging outside, I’m worried about what might have driven her out. Fuck. Not to mention where the hell she might’ve gone. The concern now building into urgency, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through numbers until I hit Gunnar’s.

  “Yeah ...” his sleepy voice answers, just as I’m about to hang up after the fourth ring.