Outside the Law

by Kara Lennox

  Beth grabbed her overnight bag from the passenger seat and exited her car, waving back. But she could tell something was wrong just by the tight way Myra smiled back.

  “Beth, sugar, I’m so glad you’re here.” Myra trotted down the front steps, a worried frown putting a crease between her thin eyebrows.

  A dozen scenarios played through Beth’s mind, none of them pleasant. “What happened? Oh, God, they didn’t take Mitch back to jail, did they?” Had they found out about his late-night ramble?

  “No, but I’m worried sick they will. Mitch is gone.”

  “Gone?” Alarm shot through Beth’s veins like an injection of pure adrenaline. She glanced at the El Camino parked in the driveway, then back at Myra. Had the prospect of prison finally gotten to him? Had he fled custody?

  “He took my car. I mean, God help me, I loaned him my car because, whatever he’s doing, I guess he didn’t want the police to spot him…” She shook her head. “I never could say no to him.”

  “Where do you think he’s headed?” She already had her cell phone out, scrolling through her contacts to find Daniel’s number. “Would he go for the border? Did he take any survival stuff with him, tents or food—”

  “No, no, you’ve got the wrong idea. He’s coming back. At least, he said he would be back before 1:00 a.m.”

  Beth paused just before she hit the dial button. “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “Well, Mitch has never lied to me before. He never had any reason to, since I had no control over him whatsoever. He said if anyone should come looking for him, I should say I don’t know where he is and that he took my keys without my permission, but I told him I wouldn’t lie.”

  Beth sank onto the steps, the wind out of her sails. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to seeing Mitch again until she found he wasn’t home.

  “Did he give any indication where he might be going?”

  “Absolutely none. But, Beth…he wasn’t wearing the cuff. He got it off his ankle somehow.”

  “Then he’s probably left the parish,” Beth said dully. “How long ago did he leave?”

  “It’s been at least two hours. I probably should have called you or his attorney right away, but I guess I was clinging to the hope that he would think better of his plans and turn around.”

  Two hours? If he’d had the cuff off for two hours, the monitoring company should have noticed by now.

  “I’m expecting the police to show up any minute,” Myra confessed. “I’m so scared. Why did he do it, Beth? With you and the other Project Justice people on his side, he stands a good chance of beating the murder charge. But he’s just making a bad situation worse.”

  “I don’t know.” Beth shook her head. “I wish I did.”

  “You’ve got a hankering for him, don’t you?” Myra didn’t sound like she was guessing. Beth supposed she wasn’t very good at hiding her feelings.

  “A hankering…that’s a good way to put it,” she said, figuring her protests would sound lame.

  “You’d be good for him, I think,” Myra said. “A settling influence.”

  “I used to think we might be good together because we had so much in common.” Maybe it wasn’t the best idea in the world to spill her guts to Mitch’s mother, but she sensed a sympathetic listener. And right now, her feelings were so desolate she needed to unload on somebody. Since Raleigh, the usual shoulder she cried on, wasn’t available, Myra was the lucky substitute.

  Maybe Myra could give her some insight into her son that would help Beth understand him.

  “Mitch is a computer geek, I’m a science geek. We’re both addicted to true-crime TV shows. But those are just surface qualities. There’s a lot to Mitch that I don’t understand at all. Way below the surface.”

  “He’s not always easy to understand.”

  They lapsed into silence. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the leaves rustling with the evening breeze and the insects and frogs that started their incessant buzzing and croaking the moment the sun went down.

  Finally Beth spoke again. “He admitted his father mistreated him.”

  “His father used to beat him black and blue,” Myra clarified. “I oftentimes had to keep him home from school until the bruises faded.”

  Beth shuddered.

  “I’m sure you think I’m a terrible mother for allowing it to happen. For not doing something.”

  “Actually, that thought never crossed my mind. You were afraid that no matter what you did, you would only make things worse.”

  “Why, yes, that’s exactly how it was!” Myra sounded surprised to find someone who understood. Had she never confided to anyone? Beth supposed group therapy for victims of abuse wasn’t readily available here in the sticks, or at least it hadn’t been years ago.

  Beth wasn’t sure what else to add. She wasn’t a therapist, and she couldn’t undo years of abuse with a heartfelt declaration of sympathy. The last thing she felt like doing right now was recounting her own brief episode of living with a bully whose temper escalated to violence against her.

  She was too emotionally fragile to be the strong one.

  Not knowing what else to do, she reached out to Myra’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Do you think he could ever forgive me?” Myra asked in a small voice. “When we talked, he seemed to understand, a little bit.”

  “Sounds like he’s taken the first step. Even if he knows, in his head, that you did the best you knew how to do, it might take his heart a while to catch up with his brain.”

  “That’s good enough for now, I expect. He has more important things to worry about than soothing his mama.”

  Yeah. Like being a fugitive.

  “Did you try to call him?” Beth asked.

  “No. Even if he answered, he wouldn’t tell me anything different than he already told me.”

  Beth already had her phone out and was dialing Mitch’s cell. It went to voice mail, of course. Hey, at least he wasn’t driving and talking on the phone at the same time.

  “I can’t answer the phone,” came his recorded voice. “But just so you know, I will be back before 1:00 a.m. and I’m not making a break for Mexico. I’m keeping a promise I made a long time ago, and it has nothing to do with the charges against me. I’m not doing anything illegal or immoral. And, Beth, if you’re listening to this…I’m sorry I…” He was silent too long, and his outgoing message ended with a beep.

  “Sorry?” Beth yelled into her phone. “You think ‘sorry’ is going to make up for abusing the faith of everyone who is working their asses off to prove your innocence and worrying your mother sick? Sorry isn’t gonna cut it, you miserable son of a—” She quickly cut herself off, since his mother was sitting right next to her.

  She disconnected with an angry jab of her thumb.

  “Dang, girl, I hope I don’t ever get on your bad side,” Myra said. “When you catch up with him, I hope you give him a good talking-to. Maybe you can straighten him out.”

  Beth suspected the Coot’s Bayou Police would straighten him out before Beth ever got the chance. Except…if he removed his cuff, why hadn’t the police shown up here?

  “What do you suppose he did with the cuff?” Beth asked Myra.

  “I have no idea. But the thing is run by a computer chip, right? Monitored by other computers, communicating with yet more computers.”

  “Yes…”

  “If anyone can figure out how to outsmart a chip, Mitch can.”

  That had to be it. He had somehow figured out how to hack into the cuff’s communication feedback loop long enough that he could get it off his ankle, then fasten it closed again.

  But that would only provide a temporary fix. The cuff could sense whether it was attached to a warm, mobile human being. If it cooled off and didn’t move at all, an alarm would go off somewhere.

  Beth searched Mitch’s room but couldn’t find the cuff. His computer was password protected, so there was no way to see what he’d
been doing in cyberspace, not that he would ever be stupid enough to leave a trail.

  “Did you find it?” Myra asked, standing uneasily in the doorway.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to report him?” Myra asked. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “He said he would be home by one,” Beth said. “Let’s just see if he shows up.” Besides, Beth couldn’t bear the thought of telling her Project Justice colleagues about Mitch’s transgressions. What if they lost faith in him? What if Daniel washed his hands of Mitch’s case? It wouldn’t be the first time Daniel had pulled the plug on a self-destructive client who wouldn’t play by Daniel’s rules. The one thing he required of a client—besides their being innocent—was honesty.

  Mitch was obviously hiding something.

  “I need to go feed the goats and put the chickens up,” Myra said. “Then we can have some dinner. I put a broccoli-cheese casserole in the oven a few minutes ago.”

  “I’ll help you with the animals,” Beth said. “I want to see the baby again.”

  “She sure is a cutie-pie,” Myra said. “I find it comforting to watch the cycle of life continuing, no matter what else is going on in my life. The goats eat and have babies and give milk, the chickens lay eggs and raise chicks. They’re not bothered by all the drama.”

  “Maybe they’ve got the right idea,” Beth said. “I could do with a little less drama in my life.”

  It seemed to Beth as if the baby goat had grown just since yesterday. It was so cute, pure white with just the hint of gray highlights on its head, feet and tail, very different looking from its brown mama. It hid behind its mother when Beth approached.

  “Come on, you two, let’s go to the barn and get some oats, hmm?” Beth thought she would take the mom goat’s halter and lead her into the barn, but that turned out not to be necessary. The second Myra opened the door, all of the goats turned and trotted toward the shelter and dinner.

  That was when Beth saw that the billy goat wore a fetching new black collar made out of Gore-Tex.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “IN THIS CORNER, weighing in at one-eighty-nine, Mickey the ‘Cagey Cajun’ Croix! Let’s give it up for the Cajun, undefeated in his last six fights!”

  A roar rose in the Houston Memorial Arena, the largest venue Mitch had ever fought in. He raised his hands and bared his teeth at the crowd like a madman, quivering with anger that was only a little bit faked. He’d risked a lot to come here, and defeat was not an acceptable outcome.

  “And in this corner, weighing in at one-ninety-nine, the current light-heavyweight champion of South-Southeast Texas, Ricky ‘Quick Death’ Marquita!”

  The volume of applause and screaming cranked up a notch. Marquita had certainly found a fan base, and Mitch could see why. The guy was a solid wall of muscles with a gleaming white smile in a pretty-boy face. Looked as if he’d never had his nose broken.

  But Mitch wasn’t fooled by the movie-star looks. Marquita was tough. Rumor had it that early in his career he’d bitten half a guy’s lip off—back when he was a back-alley brawler, before he’d gone legit.

  Mitch knew that world. Anybody who had come to MMA via that route knew how to play dirty. He would be prepared for anything.

  At first, the two men just circled, with Marquita in the center and Mitch dancing around him. Mitch didn’t like that dynamic, so he moved in, doing a few one-two-one-two punches toward Marquita’s head. Marquita counterpunched, mixing a few body shots in with his jabs, but Mitch rolled to the side, avoiding serious contact. He ducked under a left hook, feeling the rush of air over his head as Marquita missed, and lunged for Marquita’s body, trying to find a takedown off the other man’s punches, but Marquita was faster than he looked. He slid out of Mitch’s grasp like a greased pig.

  Mitch punched straight to Marquita’s middle, but Marquita parried with an elbow. Mitch stepped back and fired off a roundhouse kick, making solid contact with Marquita’s ribs. But the guy was hard as a rock, and the kick didn’t seem to faze him.

  Knockouts were showy, but Mitch realized the only way to defeat Marquita was to get him on the ground and force a tap-out. Brazilian jujitsu grappling was effective no matter what the size of the opponent, depending on leverage and torque to deliver excruciating pain—and serve up an opponent’s surrender.

  Mitch targeted Marquita’s body and legs with kicks, still looking for entry but pleased he was holding his own.

  The bell signaled the end of the first round, and Mitch retreated to his corner of the cage where his trainer, Craig McGee, blotted the sweat from his body and squirted water into his mouth.

  “You’re doing great, kid,” he said, sounding surprised. “Spend the next round tiring him out. He’ll get sloppy and you can go for the takedown. Don’t try to ground-and-pound him, he can take an amazing amount of pain. Use that naked rear choke we’ve been working on.”

  Mitch happened to glance at the clock. Hell, if he had any prayer of making it back to Coot’s Bayou by one, he’d have to end this thing sooner rather than later. To hell with tiring out Marquita.

  Just before the match had started, he’d made the mistake of listening to the message Beth had left for him. His stomach tightened every time he thought about it. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to get away with this stunt and have no one find out.

  But he damn well wasn’t going to make it worse by being late. He couldn’t lose the support of Project Justice, but especially not Beth.

  The bell rang, and he and Marquita were back at it. Mitch landed a right hand kick that snapped Marquita’s head, but Marquita, snorting like an angry bull, landed a couple of left kicks of his own.

  Mitch took a shot to the eye. He could detect it swelling, but with all the adrenaline pumping through his body, he felt no pain.

  When Marquita took him down, Mitch didn’t see it coming. Suddenly he was flat on his back with Marquita in his guard, attempting to ground-and-pound.

  Mitch fought back with double underhooks and double butterflies, looking for an opportunity. There, just the slightest release of pressure on his hips, and Mitch had the opening he needed. He swept his legs out and levered himself on top of Marquita, catching him in a half guard, looking for the arm triangle choke. Marquita turtled and tried to get up. Mitch was about to go for the joint manipulation that would end this thing when the bell rang again.

  He hardly listened as Craig jabbered advice into his ear about Marquita’s weak spots. He was pissed now, and he was going to get this guy. When the bell rang, Mitch rushed Marquita like an out-of-control bullet train, getting his opponent into a clinch against the fence. Mitch landed double underhooks, then a right elbow. The two men traded a few heavy punches. Mitch landed a knee, but Marquita got hold of Mitch’s ankle and grounded him again with a single-leg takedown.

  But Mitch didn’t go all the way down. He managed to wedge himself partly against the fence, from where he could throw some short right hands. Marquita tried to pull him away from the cage, which gave Mitch the opening he needed to regain his feet. Marquita tried for another takedown, but Mitch was having none of it. Fueled by the urgency of the clock, he literally saw red as he got a grip around Marquita’s midsection, lifted him into the air, and slammed him facedown into the mat. It was dangerously close to spiking, but since Marquita landed more on his chest than his face, the ref didn’t call it. Mitch sank on top of Marquita and went for the kill…the rear naked choke.

  Within three seconds, Marquita tapped out, and it was over. Mitch was a champion…of something. Not the world, or the state of Texas, but some universe this particular fight franchise had carved out for itself.

  Mitch helped Marquita to his feet. The two men embraced briefly. “Helluva fight,” Marquita said. Then the ref grabbed Mitch’s wrist and lifted his arm into the air, and the crowd went crazy.

  Mitch accepted the fickle crowd’s approval with another growl. Then he was heading for the dressing room.

  “Hey, where
ya going?” Craig demanded, trailing after him with towel, water bottle and the silk robe he’d had made with the Cagey Cajun logo emblazoned in red on black.

  “I have to get back home or I’m in a shitload of trouble, Craig. I’ll sign autographs next time.” Maybe his disappearing act would add to his mystique.

  Ten minutes later, he was in his mom’s station wagon headed out of the parking lot. He’d managed to beat most of the traffic, and within a few more minutes he was on the freeway headed back to Louisiana.

  He drove a consistent nine miles over the speed limit the whole way because if he got pulled over by any law enforcement, it would all be over.

  It might all be over anyway. There might be an angry posse waiting for him at his mom’s, ready to cart him off to jail.

  He’d known the risks going in. And his victory tonight in the cage might be all for nothing. If he ended up sentenced to prison for life, tonight was his swan song.

  But he’d done it. He’d needed the victory. His body hummed pleasantly at being pushed to its absolute physical limit. He felt more at peace than he had in a long time. His ass was in a sling, and he felt at peace. This was something he would never be able to explain to anyone, least of all Beth, who would run screaming into the night if she ever saw him in a cage, beating someone to a pulp.

  The traffic was light as he bombed down I-10 toward the Louisiana border, and he opened the window and let the cool, moist night air riffle through his hair.

  As he turned down the dirt road where his mother lived, he felt only momentary apprehension over what might await him. He half expected to see a cluster of cop cars, dome lights flashing angry red, blue and white, sitting in the driveway. But as the house came into view, no glaring lights assaulted his senses. All looked quiet…

  Except there was Beth’s yellow Escape. His gut tightened. What was she doing here? His body went to war with itself. He felt he should dread the coming confrontation. But he also felt a liberating sense of exhilaration at the prospect of seeing her again.

  As he pulled into the driveway, the car clock said it was ten minutes to one. He’d kept his word to his mother, at least. For what that was worth, after he’d abused everybody else’s faith in him.