"I didn't divorce my husband. I killed him."
What could I say to that? So I said nothing.
"Most of the story I told you was true. We were married for five years. At first it was blissful, like I said, and the whole part about me not being able to have children was true. What I didn't tell you was how abusive my husband became—emotionally and physically. He would hit me sometimes, but even worse was that he would always play with my mind. The emotional abuse was horrible. And then he would force himself on me, as if that would somehow fix me and I would get pregnant. He would fly into a rage when I got my period. When it was confirmed that I was sterile, he almost killed me. He had beaten all the confidence out of me—everything I had once been. Somehow though, I was able to plan my escape—I don't know how my mind was even working at that point. It took weeks from the moment I decided to do it until the time I killed him—weeks of more abuse and weeks of fighting with my desire to just lie down and die. He came home one night from work, and I was waiting for him with a shovel. I meant to just hit him over the head with it—even with all the planning, I'm not sure I really had it in me to kill him—but the shovel turned as I swung, and I hit him with the edge of the blade, splitting his head wide open. He was dead immediately."
She talked in a monotone, the quaver gone. It was as if she had long ago lost any feeling for her actions of that night.
She continued. "The police arrested me and I stood trial for murder."
"Did they know you had been abused?"
"I told them, and they could see the old bruises, but I had never called the police and he had never hurt me badly enough to go to the hospital, so there was nothing to back up my statements. You have to understand, I was young and I was scared. My parents were dead and my sister was not in my life. This was his hometown. I had no close friends. It was my word against his family's word. I had no hope of winning that battle. The only thing that saved me from life in prison was the fact that the judge believed me. Maybe he had dealt with that family before. I don't know. But when it came time for sentencing, he took pity on me: Eight to fifteen years, with the chance of parole after six. I served the six and was released from prison four years ago.
No way! She didn't have the prison mentality, the crudeness, or the hard looks of someone who had done six years in prison—other than the way she had dispatched Mario's guy. Now Izzy I could believe, but not Sabrina. Not at all. I told her as much.
"I was lucky … if you could call it that. Not my first year. My first year was the most absolute hell you could ever imagine. I was beaten by the other inmates and raped repeatedly by the guards. If I had been resourceful enough to find a way to kill myself, I would have."
She was quiet for a moment, revisiting a memory probably best left alone. "Then my life turned around. The beginning of the second year things changed suddenly. I heard the head honcho inmate, a very large and intimidating woman in her thirties named Terri, say to someone that she was trying to write a letter to a guy on the outside she liked, but didn't know what to say. I told her I had experience writing and would help her with it. I needed some way to get on the good side of people. Of course, I was lying through my teeth. I had no experience writing. What I did have, that most of these women lacked, was an education. Some of them couldn't put two words together. Anyway, Terri took me up on the offer. The day a letter came back from the guy showing interest was the day hell ended for me. Terri wanted me to write all of her letters and she put out the word that I was not to be touched—even by the guards.
Over the next five years, I wrote letters for everybody—including the guards. I was writing letters to lovers, family members, lawyers, the media—I even had an article published, not under my name, of course, but under the name of the inmate I was writing it for. Things got a lot better for me, and for the first time since early in my marriage, I was gaining confidence. I would trade writing for facials, haircuts, manicures, pedicures, you name it. It's why I don't have the hard looks associated with prison. Some of the girls taught me how to defend myself—real self-defense—effective stuff that causes the most pain to your attacker. These girls were tough, but they also had needs and my writing fulfilled so many of those needs. One of the guards who had raped me early on even apologized for his actions after I wrote a loving letter to his mother for him. Prison is where I wrote my first two books, although I didn't try to get them published until I got out."
She went on. "Once I was released, I legally changed my name and found a job. I did live in an apartment with other women—none of whom knew my story, by the way—but I never worked as an editorial assistant."
She caught a breath. I was mesmerized by her story and still couldn't say anything.
"That part of my life is something I will never be able to forget, obviously, but I'm doing everything possible to move on and create this new life as Sabrina Spencer, author. Someday the story will come out, but by then, hopefully I will be strong enough to lay it out without shame. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you the truth, but you have to understand, I didn't know you well enough at first. I've thought a few times about when I would tell you, but I kept chickening out. Only three people in my new life know this story—my agent, my editor, and my therapist." She smiled for the first time. "My therapist, by the way, will be thrilled that I had this breakdown. She has been trying for four years to get me to let it out like that, but I've been unable to. Maybe it took finding someone I really cared about for it to happen."
"I think that answers a question I had as to why you seemed so tentative in bed, and also why you clung on so hard," I said.
"Del, I haven't had sex for nine years, and before that, I hadn't had willing sex for another three or four. I held onto you—and will continue to hold onto you, if you still want me—because you are the first person in my life I feel totally safe with. I've never known that feeling. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you."
I reached over and pulled her to me. "Sabrina, I understand. I wouldn't have told anyone either. Of course I still want you—but only if you take a shower. Your hair smells like puke."
She laughed, but her laugh quickly turned into tears. They were different this time, though. They were happy tears. They were tears of sheer relief.
"But I go back to my original question," I said after she had come out of the shower, now with the strawberry scent that I liked so much. "You spent six years in prison, and yet, one would never know. How can that be?"
"Believe it or not, I owe a tremendous amount to my fellow inmates. Yes, most of them terrorized me in the beginning, but I came to realize that that was their own form of self-preservation. Deep down they were still people with the same hopes and fears as anyone else. It was just that their hopes had to be customized to their life behind bars. Once we established my worth to the group, they became fiercely loyal to me—as I was to them. My fifth year there, a new guard tried to rape me. Because of the skills these girls taught me, I almost killed him. I thought my hope of a parole was dead, but my friends—and even the other guards—came to my defense. The guard was charged with attempted rape and is now in prison himself. By the time I walked out those gates I was nothing like the person who had gone in. Other than the fact that I didn't trust anyone on the outside, I was confident, I was attractive, and I could take care of myself. It wouldn't have happened without them. I still write to them all the time, and send them copies of my books."
"So they know who you are now. Are you surprised no one has leaked your story to the media?"
"Not at all. As I said, they are fiercely loyal. It will eventually come out somewhere, and until now I wasn't sure I was ready for it. But these last couple of hours have cleansed me. If my story comes out, it comes out, and for the first time, I'm totally prepared."
*****
We took the rest of the day off and explored the town of Fairfield. There were actually some pretty spots. We drove a ways out of town and stopped next to a field full of cows. As we approached the fence, some o
f them came over to check us out. We spent well over an hour talking to them and petting them. It was just what we both needed, but especially, it was what Sabrina needed.
She was even different in bed that night. A calm had pervaded her whole being. There was none of the desperation I felt before. I woke up before her the next morning, and I could have sworn she actually had a smile on her face while she slept.
Chapter 16
We were in the car on the way to Wahoo, Nebraska, each of us deep in our own thoughts. Somewhat appropriately, John Cale was on the radio singing Hallelujah.
The song ended. Finally, I spoke. "I'm going to ask you a weird question."
"Oh?"
"Not so much weird, as embarrassing—embarrassing for me, not for you." She looked at me expectantly. "It kind of takes a whack at my manhood. Hell, you're supposed to be coming to me with this question." I hesitated. This really was embarrassing.
She gave me a smile to let me know it was alright, then said, "So out with it."
"I'll start with a preamble. My life for the last ten years has been my job. It gave me little time for anything else. Before that, I took care of my mother while she was sick. There are a lot of things I've thought about doing, or wished I had done, and one of them was self-defense classes. A couple of years ago I asked Mo, my martial artist neighbor, to teach me some moves, but they all seemed so complicated—grab here, push there, turn this—and there was no way I would remember it all. You took care of those two guys in the alley like you were taking a stroll in the park. How did you make it look so easy?"
"Because it was. I think what you are trying to ask me, but it's doing quite a number on your male ego—which I think is cute, by the way—is, will I teach you some of those moves?"
"Yeah, that's what's trying to come out, but it's fighting me all the way. I feel like such a wimp. I assume it's all stuff you learned in pr … your former life."
"Del, it's okay to say prison. It's where I was. In my mind, I didn't deserve to be there, but when all is said and done, it was an experience that has made me who I am now, so I have no regrets. Yes, I learned it there. I can definitely show you moves, and that's valuable. But the most important part of it is something I can try to teach you while we drive. It will cost you, though."
I looked at her, thinking she was joking. I could tell by her face that she wasn't.
"I'll teach you how to fight, but only if you teach me how to trust."
"Trust?"
"When we were on the plane and that autograph seeker approached me, I was fine with that. I could tell she was sincere. But I didn't trust any of the others and I was very uncomfortable. The flight attendant saw that, which is why she put a stop to it. When I do book signings, I'm always on edge—on guard. I'm always wondering what the person's motive is. What's their hidden agenda?"
"People don't always have a hidden agenda," I said.
"Exactly. And that's why you have to teach me to trust. I spent six years in an environment where everyone had an agenda—even I had one. Nothing was done for the sake of doing it. There had to be a reason. Trying to figure out someone's motivation was all part of the game. An agenda was part of life there. At first for me it was all about trying to survive—and when you come right down to it, that was the underlying motivation for us all. But once you figured out the basics, it got more involved. You needed something, you found a way to get it. Sometimes you had to take advantage of someone, but usually it was a simple trading process. I have what you need and you have—or can get by trading with someone else—what I need."
She took a breath.
"I distrust everyone, Del. Everyone but you. You are the only person since I was a young girl that I trust implicitly. And I've only known you for a few days."
"Your editor and agent?"
"I like them, and obviously I had to open up to them about my past. But I can't honestly say that I trust them."
"Your therapist?"
"Oh God, no. I mean, she's a sincere person and I like her, but I'm always on guard with her. She can get me to talk about almost anything, and yet, I can't allow myself to trust her because I don't like the control she has over me when I'm there."
"Why me?" I asked. "I mean, why is it me that you trust? Here I am, ashamed of the fact that I don't have the street smarts or skills that you have. I'm a middle-management drone. I'm boring. I'm still trying to figure out why you like me at all."
"Because you're honest and you're caring. You sacrificed your life for three years to take care of your mother. Do you have any idea how rare that is? You had the humility to allow yourself to ask me for fighting tips. You've got more street-smart skills than you think. You just need to find your passion. I found mine with my writing. You'll discover yours."
I had to think about that for a minute.
"Okay. I will do my best to teach you how to trust, but I don't think there are any tricks to it. Eventually it all comes down to what's inside you. That will be the defining test."
"Funny," Sabrina said. "That's exactly what fighting is all about. Maybe we will be treading on similar ground in our teaching."
"You said the gist of self-defense could be taught in the car. How?"
"By changing your attitude. The reason Mo can't teach you is because to her, it's meant to be complex. I don't know her, but I can guess that she strips every move down to its basic form, and then builds on it from there, adding complexity as she goes. I bet she thrives on that."
"Knowing Mo, I'd say you are probably right."
"You can take self-defense courses and martial arts classes, and you will learn some cool stuff. But in the vast majority of those classes, you will probably miss—unless you have an extraordinary teacher—the one thing that will determine your success in the real world: the inner ability to kill someone. If you don't have that, all the training in the world won't help you."
"How can you teach that? After all, I'm a pretty civilized guy. Killing someone doesn't exactly come naturally."
"Right, and that's where most self-defense courses go wrong. When I first got married, Kevin insisted I take a self-defense class. His heart was in the right place—at least, at that point in our marriage. He wanted me to be able to protect myself. So I took the class and I learned all the moves. They were all simple and effective ways to repel an attacker, and we practiced on our classmates. But in the end, I didn't feel any safer. Even though they were simple moves, I was afraid of ever having to actually use them. Why?"
"Bad teacher?"
"No. He was actually a good teacher for technique. But he forgot an important part of it—or maybe he just didn't know it himself—the part of it having to do with the fact that we were all civilized. Civilized people don't do that sort of thing. In prison, on the other hand, there is nothing civilized. Everything you do is for survival. If you are in a fight, you don't have time for fancy moves. If you are attacked by a man, you go for the groin with the intent of making sure your attacker will never have children. You go for the eyes, not with the intent to hurt, but with the intent to blind—to push your thumbs right through the eye sockets. In classes you are taught about the vulnerability of the pinky finger and how you can subdue someone by bending it back. If I'm going to grab the pinky, it will be with the intent to rip it off their hand. You have to bring yourself down to the level of your attacker. Even if their purpose isn't to kill you, the minute they seriously threaten you, it's all fair game."
I just looked at her and shook my head in wonder. She was a strange combination of vulnerability and strength. The image she put out to the world was the person she would like to be, but was still light years away from actually becoming. In bed, she was like a child who was craving love and acceptance. But her strength was an animal strength, a survival instinct that had been honed sharp as a knife. She was someone you didn't want to mess with.
"You can't go into a fight hoping to overpower your opponent," she continued. "You have to go into it wanting to break your oppone
nt into little pieces. There is nothing subtle about it. I can tell you all this, but in the end it comes down to your ability to find that part of yourself, because I think we all have it in us. It just depends on how deeply buried it is."
"You gained all this in prison," I began. "Do you think there was any part of yourself that you lost while there?" I asked.
"There was nothing to lose, because I hadn't yet found myself. I was a young bride dominated by a very powerful man. I had already lost my innocence because of him and I didn't yet have an identity. No, what I lost was time, the time to find myself like a normal person would. I ended up finding the dark side of myself, something I'm not especially proud of. But I really didn't have any choice."
And now I knew. She was simply a lost soul trying hard to find her way.
I had to learn to kill. She had to learn to trust. I think I had the easier part of the deal.
Chapter 17
We were quiet for a while, both of us reflecting on our life experiences—the heartaches, the missed opportunities, and the strange path that led us to each other.
"This is exciting, don't you think?" Sabrina said, breaking the silence.
Okay, so it was only me.
"Yeah, I guess," I answered. "A question. Assuming we find the painting, will there be enough clues to lead us to the treasure?"
"I guess we take it one step at a time. We find Russ Simpson and hope he has it."
"And hope he gives it to us. Sounds like he's kind of an asshole."
"You've got the original slip. He has to give it to you. If I have to, I'll call my agent. He's also a lawyer."
"The slick big-city lawyer calls the bumpkin from Wahoo?" I asked. "That should be fun."
Not even close.
*****
All Lies Page 10
