by Jason Pinter
“Get out of here, Earl, before you hurt yourself.”
Earl slunk back to the bleachers, rubbing his arm, hair askew.
Myra pointed to the bleachers.
“You.”
She was pointing at Rachel.
Rachel looked around.
“Yes, you, Blondie. Let’s go.”
Rachel stood up hesitantly, grabbed her bag, and walked toward the ring.
“Leave your bag,” Myra said. Rachel sheepishly walked back into the stands, put her bag on the seat, and asked Earl to watch it for her. “Let’s go, Rachel, my hair is going gray waiting for you.”
Rachel climbed into the ring and stood before Myra. They were nearly the same height, but Myra’s quadriceps were about as thick as Rachel’s waist.
“Now. Hit me.”
Rachel looked at Myra. She knew how this would play out. She would go to punch or slap her, and Myra would block or dodge or do something to make Rachel look silly.
“What are you waiting for, Miss Prissy? Hit me!”
Rachel brought her fist back, balled up her fingers, and saw the subtlest movement in Myra’s lower body as she prepared to counter.
She’s expecting this, Rachel thought.
So when Rachel brought her hand forward, instead of following through with the punch, she jabbed out her left foot and kicked Myra in the shin.
The blow landed softly, but Myra stumbled back, startled.
Then she began to laugh.
“I think I like you, Blondie.”
Once Myra repeated the “drill” with everyone in the bleachers, she began the real lesson: self-defense. Everyone partnered off and mimicked Myra’s movements. Rachel paired up with Earl. After his embarrassment at Myra’s hands, Earl was doubly tentative, even though they were going at half speed.
“I don’t need any broken noses or dislocated elbows on our first day,” Myra said. “This is not Fight Club. There’s no pride in getting injured. This is about defense.”
Three people dropped out. One, a Spanish woman calling herself Giselle who came sporting freshly manicured nails and a pleather tube top, left after a not-terribly-coordinated hairdresser named Diane clocked her across the cheek, drawing blood. Two men vomited during their first sparring session and never returned.
They practiced blocks and counters, positioning and striking. Footwork and poise. Balance and breathing. Slowly, methodically. Soon enough Rachel was coated in a thick layer of sweat, and her muscles ached. But she felt terrific.
After the session ended, Myra led the class to a janitor’s closet that held the cleaning supplies. Rachel recognized the smells. Myra had them wipe down the ring canvas, rubber mats, and bleachers. They got to use the facility for free, she said, with the caveat that they didn’t leave their stink.
Rachel felt bruised, battered, sore, sweaty, and alive. The group paraded past Myra to the parking lot, giving her small nods and thank-yous. They would then go home to their wives, husbands, children, or whatever normalcy waited for them.
Rachel grabbed her bag and checked her cell phone. No missed calls but one text from her nanny, Esmerelda—or Essie, as they called her—containing an adorable video of her two-year-old singing a Taylor Swift song.
They had lived in their current house just a few months, and Rachel still hadn’t gotten used to it. There were so many boxes still unpacked, drawers still empty, and she still didn’t have the faintest idea how to work the remote control for the TV. Her eight-year-old son had been begging her to get them an Apple TV, but when Rachel learned you needed to hook it up to a credit card account, she nixed that suggestion, to her son’s lament.
Rachel limped through the front door like someone had taken a golf club to every bone in her body. They had moved to a nine-hundred-square-foot single-level ranch-style home in Torrington, an hour north of Darien. It had two small bedrooms, a narrow living room, a galley kitchen with off-white laminate countertops and old appliances, and a small backyard where Eric could kick a soccer ball and not much else. They ate breakfast and dinner at a coffee table. The kids were growing. They could not last here long.
The backyard was fenced in. It hadn’t been when they’d moved in, but Rachel had had the cedar pickets built and painted within the week. She didn’t need people staring at her kids. Nobody in Torrington knew who they were, and Rachel aimed to keep it that way.
Rachel paid Essie and thanked her. She got a glass of water from the kitchen and sank into the brown polyester sofa. She downed the entire glass in a single gulp, caught her breath, and went to check on the kids.
Her daughter was fast asleep in her daybed. She slept on her side, curled into a little C shape. She clutched her Baby Stella doll, with its removable pacifier stuffed in its mouth. They looked like little pink twins. It took every ounce of willpower not to wake her daughter up, hold her to her chest, and cry for hours.
Her son was on his bed, buried in yet another thick paperback. The cover featured a young man sitting in the gnarled branches of a tree with a human face. She knew it wasn’t easy for him, sharing a room with his sister, but none of what had happened was fair. This was a small inconvenience compared to everything else. Besides, they’d move soon enough.
“What are you reading?” she whispered. She was amazed that he could finish such a doorstop. He held his page with his finger and turned the book so the cover faced Rachel. “The Two Towers. Any good?”
He nodded his approval.
“What did you have for dinner?”
“Essie ordered in pizza. Meatball. There are a few slices left.”
“Thanks, sweetie.”
A hot shower, clean pajamas, and a few slices of pizza sounded heavenly.
“Hey, Mom?” he said.
She looked back at her son. “Yes, hon?”
“Are we going to stay here?”
Rachel smiled at him and said, “For a little while. But then we’ll get a house where you and your sister can each have your own room.”
He nodded, placated. Then he said, “Will things ever be back to normal?”
This question took her by surprise. Without thinking, she said, “Yes. Yes, they will.”
Her son turned back to his book. “No they won’t.”
She sighed. No, she thought. They won’t.
CHAPTER 15
Today
Before Rachel’s brain had time to process the fact that she’d just fired a buckshot shell into Nicholas Drummond’s brother-in-law, she heard a pounding at the front door.
“Ashby PD!”
Rachel moved away from Christopher Robles. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere. She kept the shotgun trained on him and moved to the front door.
“My name is Rachel Marin,” she shouted. “I’m the owner of this house. An armed man trespassed on my property and forced his way inside. I am a licensed gun owner, and I shot him in self-defense. His name is Christopher Robles. He is alive and has been disarmed and is currently incapacitated, but he needs immediate medical attention.”
“Ms. Marin,” a man’s voice replied from the other side of the door. “Please put your weapon down on the ground, let us into the house, then stand back with your hands raised above your head.”
“All right. When you enter, there’s a staircase right in front of you in the foyer. The man is on the steps. He was carrying a SIG Sauer P226 and a tactical hunting knife. I’ve disarmed him of both. I’m placing both of his weapons, and mine, a Mossberg 500 shotgun, on the floor next to the door. I will then open the door.”
“We’ve called paramedics. Let us inside.”
“OK.”
Rachel placed the Mossberg, the SIG Sauer, and the knife off to the side of the front door. She opened the door, then stepped back and placed her hands up so the officers could see she was unarmed. A gust of cold wind blew inside, and Rachel shivered. The streetlights cast a pale glow into the darkened home.
Four Ashby PD officers entered. Two of them immediately went over to the steps to c
heck on Robles. One of the officers, a bald black man with a neat goatee in his midthirties, took out a notepad. The other, a fortysomething Asian man with his hair tied in a short ponytail, stepped outside and went to fill in the EMTs. Rachel knew that following a shooting, the house would be crawling with police and medical personnel.
Why in the hell did Christopher Robles break into my house?
The black officer spoke in an even, sympathetic voice. “Ms. Marin, I’m Officer Lowe. Tell me what happened, in detail.”
“I was upstairs with my children when we heard a gunshot and a window break downstairs. I told my children to hide in our basement. When my security system administrators called due to the broken window, I told them to contact 911 immediately.”
She told him that Robles had been armed and made an aggressive move toward her with the gun, leaving her no choice but to shoot him.
“You have experience handling shotguns?” Lowe asked, somewhat incredulously.
“I do. And I am fully trained and licensed. I purposefully aimed for his shoulder.”
“You wanted to incapacitate him. Not kill him.”
“That’s right.”
“Gun like that has a lot of stopping power.”
“That’s why I use it. Someone breaks into your house with a gun and a knife and intent to use them, you don’t want to have to worry about getting off multiple shots to bring them down.”
Lowe shook his head, amused. “Glad I’m not on your bad side, Ms. Marin.”
An ambulance pulled into the driveway. Three EMTs entered with a stretcher. Robles screamed bloody murder as they placed him on the board and strapped him down. One of the EMTs handcuffed his noninjured wrist to the stretcher.
“My kids,” Rachel said to Officer Lowe. “They’re in the basement, hiding. I need to let them know they’re safe.”
“All right, go ahead. But we’ll need to take you down to the station to make an official statement. Do you have an attorney?”
“Yes . . . do you think I need one?”
“Can’t hurt. If this went down the way you said it did . . .”
“It did,” Rachel said.
“All right. Go get your kids. An officer will accompany you while we secure the house and make sure there are no more intruders.”
“Thanks, Officer. Just need to go upstairs to switch on the breakers so you have light to work with.”
The other cops had already begun taping off the staircase, waiting for forensics and ballistics to arrive.
Rachel slid past them and turned the breaker switches back on. Then she went to the basement door, entered the security code, and opened it. She went downstairs and came to the metal security door. Through a ten-by-ten-inch window in the door, she could see Eric and Megan seated. When they saw her, they leaped up and ran over. Rachel opened the security door and gathered her children into her.
“It’s over,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”
Megan was weeping. Eric was strangely limp in her arms.
“The police are here,” she said. “We need to go upstairs and then just answer a few questions at the station so they can do their job.”
“Where’s the bad man?” Megan said.
“The police have him. He can’t hurt anyone now.”
“Are you sure?” Eric said.
“I’m sure.”
He nodded. “You got him.”
She nodded. “I did.”
They walked up the stairs to the ground floor. Rachel made sure both the security door and the main door closed behind her. As they passed by the staircase, still slick with Robles’s blood, Rachel covered Megan’s eyes.
Eric took it all in. He walked slowly, observing the carnage. Just feet away from where he slept. Rachel prayed this was the last horror the boy had to endure.
They gathered their coats from the front closet. The police had let the front door remain open. Cold winter air was blowing through the house. Within minutes, their home was freezing and overrun with police officers and technicians.
Officer Lowe knelt down slightly so he was closer to the kids’ eye level.
“I’m Officer Derek Lowe, and this is my partner, Officer Chen. Officer Chen is going to take you all to the station. It’s warm there. And we have a pretty great vending machine with a lot of snacks.”
Eric and Megan nodded. Rachel mouthed the words Thank you to Officer Lowe. Officer Chen loaded them into a squad car and drove away. Rachel watched their house disappear in the side mirror, cops surrounding it like ants.
Rachel sat in the middle of the squad car: Megan to her left, Eric to her right. They were both silent. In shock, she supposed. A man had been shot in their home by their mother just minutes earlier.
Not to mention what they’d seen in the basement.
“Mom,” Eric finally said, “why did you lie to us? About the basement?”
Rachel took a deep breath. She knew this conversation would have to take place at some point.
“I’ll explain everything later,” she said. “I promise.”
The Ashby North PD precinct was a two-story brick building with a triangular green roof and blue awning. Officer Chen parked in front and led the Marin family inside the double sliding doors. The officer spoke to a woman behind a glass-paned partition, who then buzzed them inside.
Rachel held Megan’s hand as they followed Officer Chen. Eric’s face was a mixture of awe and caution. She could understand that. Nobody wanted to be in a police station. But to a young boy, it was still kind of cool. She felt his fingers curl around hers.
“We’re not in trouble,” Rachel said, trying to reassure Eric. She remembered the last time they had been in a police station. Obviously so did he.
“I know,” he said unconvincingly. Chen led them to a bare white break room with a small rectangular wooden table with four metal chairs. The furniture was all bolted to the ground. There was a microwave, refrigerator, water dispenser, and single-brew coffee maker. Rachel was dying for a cup.
“Thanks, Officer. I’ll take Ms. Marin’s statement.”
Rachel turned around and was surprised to see Detective Serrano standing there. She was partly relieved to see a familiar face, partly worried since she wasn’t exactly on his good side. He was dressed in jeans and a Cubs sweatshirt. They looked clean. Rachel could see crease lines. He’d clearly just arrived and changed clothes at the station.
“You sure, Detective?” Chen said.
“I got it, Officer; thanks for your help.” Serrano then spoke to the children. “Kids, Officer Chen is going to take you into that room right over there and get you some hot chocolate and a snack.”
“I don’t like hot chocolate,” Megan said.
“What kid doesn’t like hot chocolate?” Serrano said in mock surprise.
“Mine, apparently,” Rachel said.
“That’s OK. He’ll get you whatever you want. Nonalcoholic, so don’t get any ideas.” Serrano winked at Eric, who smiled. Megan looked at Rachel, concerned.
“It’s OK, sweetie. I’ll be right here. This is the safest place on earth. When we get home, Megan, you can go back to your stories, and Eric, you can play all the Galaxy Star Trek Goop Fighter you want.”
“Galactic Warfare Brigade 11,” Eric corrected.
“Well, what do you know,” Serrano said. “I’m a big fan of those games.”
“No way,” Eric said.
“Yes way. Haven’t played the last couple Galactic Warfare Brigade games—job gets in the way sometimes—but number nine, the ending, when the giant mutated snake creature eats your entire platoon and then regurgitates them all into a humongous soup bowl? I couldn’t sleep that was so awesome.”
Eric smiled. “That was pretty cool.”
“It was pretty cool. Listen, we’ll chat about the games later. Go have a snack. Let your mom and I talk for a bit.”
Megan took Eric’s hand, and Officer Chen led them away.
“Thank you for that,” Rachel said to Serrano.
>
“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “You know, you can set your watch by the snowfall in Ashby. Every year, the first week in December it hits like clockwork. The town, I’ll tell you, it transforms into something magical. Bright lights looping around every home, snowballs flying everywhere. When I was a beat cop, I introduced myself to everyone on my route. Best part of the job. I wanted police work to feel like it did when I was a kid, where you knew the names of the people sworn to protect you.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Rachel asked.
“Because I want you to know I have your back. Despite what happened at the Drummond house. That’s why I came tonight. Sit with me,” Serrano said, motioning to the table. Rachel sat down. Serrano took the seat across from her. “I’m going to record this. Do you wish to have an attorney present?”
Rachel shook her head. “Why are you here, Detective?”
“I went for a walk after leaving the Drummond place. Thought a lot. And happened to catch what happened at your house over the radio. Figured we have a little history, and you wouldn’t mind seeing a friendlyish face tonight. Or at least a recognizable one.”
“I didn’t realize you were that friendlyish.”
“Friend or not, an armed man broke into your home, and it’s my job to find out why and to make sure you and your kids are safe.”
Rachel looked down. “Thank you.”
“All right. Take me through what happened tonight. Start from the beginning. Don’t leave any details out, no matter how small.”
Rachel told him everything. And every word was true. The break-in, the fact that Robles had been armed, that she was licensed to own and wield the Mossberg, and that she had only wounded him in self-defense.
When it was over, Rachel said, “What now?”
Serrano said, “What now is we have forensics and ballistics going over the scene and running tests on both Robles’s gun and yours. If the analysis matches up with the official story you’ve provided, it’ll likely be written up as a clean self-defense shoot.”
“Can the kids and I go home soon?”
“Not just yet,” Serrano said. “It’ll take a day or two to bag and tag the scene. We’ll put you up in a hotel for a few nights. First I’ll take you all home, and you can pack bags for yourself and the kids.”
