by John Faubion
Scott scribbled notes as she talked. From time to time he asked a question. When they had finished, he sat back.
“Now we find out where she lives.”
• • •
THEY PARKED THE TAURUS at the far end of the parking lot, where a landscaping truck obscured them. At four-ten, Melissa Montalvo exited the front entrance of the Virtual Friend Me building and got in her car.
Scott fired up the engine and followed the Audi out of the parking lot. He allowed a long distance between the two vehicles. When they turned onto the main thoroughfare he let other cars come between them, but always kept the Audi in sight.
“She’s turning. Her right blinker is on.”
Scott slowed as she turned into an old residential neighborhood close to downtown. He made the turn just in time to see Melissa pull the car into a detached garage beside an older gray home with a large bay window in the front. “Can you see the address?”
“Got it: five-one-two.” Rachel snapped more pictures as they drove on by the house.
Once they were out of sight of the house, he pulled the car up to an empty space by the curb. “I know what we’ve got to do.”
Rachel met his gaze. “What?”
“Go back where it all started. Back where the secrets are.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Everybody’s got secrets, and I’m willing to bet this woman’s past has some things in it she really doesn’t want people to know about. Things we can use to fight her.”
Rachel nodded slowly. “You’re right. She knows all about us. We need to know even more about her. And that means . . .”
“Going to where she came from.”
“But why there?”
“When you kill a weed, you dig out the root. We start at ground zero.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Helpless
That useless woman was still alive.
She’d known as much, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now she had seen for herself.
Melissa gripped her tablet, arm stiff with tension. She wanted to throw it across the living room, let the screen shatter against the hard plaster of the wall. The display had been polluted with Rachel’s face again. She bent her arm, fingers pinched tightly on the thin case.
No, she had to get control. She was better than that. She would not react to the situation. She would enact, take charge.
She laid the device down on the coffee table, facedown so she would not have to be reminded of what had just been on it.
She turned out the room lights. Then, sitting down on the sofa, she pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapped her arms around her legs, and looked out through the window. The amber light of the streetlamps puddled on the windowsill. She wore a long black nightgown, just the kind that Scott had liked when he first had Alicia wear it. She would wear it again one night and it would be with him alone.
Rachel.
She wanted to be done with her. Out of her life. If there were ever less excuse for a person being left on the earth, it was Rachel. She was like a foul odor in the refrigerator that wouldn’t go away.
And what of Scott? Four days and not a word.
With her the whole time. Not good, not good at all. She’d worked too hard pulling them apart to give them any unnecessary time together.
Where were the children? She didn’t like not knowing. A good mother should know where her children are. Everything was turned against her now.
Surely not Scott, though. He would never turn against her.
“A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life.”
No, not them. She and Scott would have many years together.
Closing her eyes, she lay her head back on the soft cushion of the sofa. She fantasized about being back at the cabin, high on their mountaintop. She sat on the outer balcony again. A cool breeze washed across her as she lay back, letting the heat of the setting sun drain off her body.
Soft noises came from inside the room behind her. Her love was there, preparing drinks for both of them to share as they watched the sun finish its descent behind the beautiful valley to the west.
How happy they were.
Scott was so long coming back outside to her. She wished he would hurry.
Her hands clenched and unclenched. She wanted him now.
• • •
OUTSIDE, a box truck thumped and clattered as it passed by the house.
Melissa shook herself, tried to clear her head. A walk, she needed to get outside and take a walk. Get some fresh air so she could think clearly.
With a loud “Mmmm,” she lifted herself off the sofa to look more closely outside. Deciding to check the temperature, she opened the front door until the chain caught. Cool air forced its way in through the opening. She clicked the door shut and turned back through the living room to the kitchen, where she picked a zip-up sweat top off the back of a high chair.
She zipped it up almost to her neck, picked up her keys and mobile phone from the countertop, and put them in the jacket side pockets. The material was soft, loosely woven. She wanted to carry something sharp, just in case, but anything she put in those pockets would surely pierce the material and be poking her or getting lost.
Just this once, she’d go outside with no other protection. After all, it was her own street, her own neighborhood.
There was no one else on the sidewalks. Melissa started a slow jog, silent in her expensive running shoes. As she approached the end of the block, she looked ahead. A streetlight was out, leaving the next section of the road cloaked in darkness. She turned left, redirected herself toward the entertainment district four blocks south. A neighborhood movie theater, a couple of clubs, a Plato’s Closet. More secure than running on the dark walkway.
As she ran, she imagined Scott running along beside her. He would comment on her appearance, and she would enjoy the looks of the admiring women who watched them go by. No, not everyone in this world was as lucky as she was. And the harder she worked her plan, the luckier she was getting.
Her breathing came harder now as her heart rate increased with the exertion. “It’s all . . . worth it . . . whatever . . . it takes.”
Cars were parked closely together along the sides of the road. Off-street parking was limited, where it existed at all. High-banked yards rose to her right as she accelerated through the blackness toward the next streetlight.
It sounded like a cat mewing the first time she heard it. She slowed but didn’t stop, strained to hear it again.
And there it was, still ahead of her, but off to the right. Melissa slowed her jog to the speed of a fast walk.
Not a cat, something else. She moved silently, watchful, wondering what could be making the sound.
• • •
“JUST HOLD STILL.” The voice was rough, insistent. She jerked her head in alarm, but saw no one. Melissa stopped, stood close to a wide tree on the narrow beltway, and fought to control her labored breath. Who had spoken?
A high hedge separated the two houses next to the sidewalk, ten feet beyond the foot-high retaining wall. She made out a white T-shirt as a man turned, his back toward her. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness. His arms were in motion, doing something.
Wary now, she backed herself behind the tree and peered around, up into the yard where the figure stood. If there was danger here, she wanted no part of it.
Now she made out a second man in dark clothes standing just beyond the first. The sounds came more clearly now. One of the men breathed heavily.
And the other sound.
“Oh, God, please no . . .” It was a young voice, a girl.
Melissa couldn’t see her, evidently hidden behind the end of the tall hedge.
“Hold still, I said.”
The white-shirted man’s shoulders turned rapidly, then she heard the dull sound of a hand striking someone.
“Uhhhh.” Sobbing. “Okay, okay. Please don’t hurt me.”
Fear rose up within her like ice water. What i
f they saw her? She didn’t dare move.
The terror clutched at her heart like an old enemy, one she remembered well. The words she heard were the same words as the other time. It’s happening again.
What if they saw her?
Weapons. She quickly patted her pockets. Nothing but the cell phone and her keys.
She snatched the phone out, turned behind the tree so the light would not show, and dialed 911. She laid it on the ground.
People used keys as weapons. Her heart skipped as the keys jingled coming out of her pocket. She looked up quickly, fearing she’d been heard, but the men paid her no attention.
The white shirt was kneeling. A low sobbing sound was coming from the unseen girl.
She held the key ring so that the long Audi key stuck out like a knife blade, gripped it securely, and stepped back onto the sidewalk.
The dark man turned toward her. “Go away.” Rather than approach her, though, he backed up into the shadows.
“I’m leaving, don’t worry.”
The girl was lying on her back alongside the hedge. The white-shirted man was on top of her, breathing heavily, his hands on her shoulders.
“Get her, Bobby. Before she calls someone.” The voice was labored, insistent, as he turned back to the girl.
Melissa backed up into the street, turned to run down the dark lane toward the lights at the end.
She was only six feet away when a heavy, rough arm came up under her chin, and she felt herself being thrown to her left.
She thudded onto the ground, felt something brittle and sharp dig into her temple, and then the impact of the dark man as his full weight pounded her once again against the unyielding ground.
The air rushed out of her under the crush of the heavy body, as he came to rest on top of her.
She tried to pull her hand free so she could fight back with the key, but felt instead sharp pains flash up her arm as she tried to move her fingers.
Twisting under his weight, she tried to turn her head to see her attacker. As her face came up, pain exploded in white light as his fist caught her by her left eye.
She tried again to pull her hands free, but the man’s body seemed to be everywhere. He felt enormous, invincible, as she tried to move under his bulk. Now his fists started pummeling her face and shoulders.
Left, right, left, right. Her head snapped one way, then the other as the blows fell. The world began buzzing in her ears. A rough hand tugged on her sweatpants.
He’s going to rape me.
She felt the hairy arms of the man on her face, felt her pants pull free.
She seemed to float in the air, detached from the spectacle beneath her, as she lifted away, away . . .
The last thing she heard was the crying of the girl as Melissa yielded up her consciousness.
• • •
RUNNING, RUNNING. A soft, insistent chirping sound stole into Melissa’s dream.
What . . . where am I?
She tried to open her eyes. The right lid struggled halfway open, but the straining left eye stuck stubbornly shut.
A hospital.
She rotated her head carefully. Everything hurt. Her face, her neck, her eyes. It hurt to see.
A curtain encircled most of the bed, a window was visible to the right. The blinds were shut, but no light slipped through the slats. It was nighttime. No way to know what day.
Lifting her left arm to eye level, she saw the array of tubes and wrappings around it. She tried to raise the other arm, but it didn’t move.
Suddenly weary with the small effort, she lay her head back and closed her eyes. A sense of peace enfolded her as she shut out the sight of the blinking, beeping equipment around her bed.
She needed to think.
I’m in a hospital.
I’m going to live.
I’ve probably been raped.
Her lip trembled, chin quivered at the onset of the thought. It was too soon, too soon. Scott would have protected her, except for . . . that woman.
Rage seethed through her. She focused her hatred against Rachel like a beam of deadly force, seeking her out.
This is Rachel’s fault. She will pay, oh, she will pay.
She felt a hand on her wrist, opened one eye to see a nurse standing by her bed.
“We’re going to want you to rest a little longer, at least till morning, okay?” The nurse offered a kindly smile as she pushed a hypodermic into a tube suspended from a hook. “We’re going to take good care of you.”
Melissa didn’t hear the last of her words as the soporific took effect and she drifted off into restful, numbing sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Resolve
The hand was back, tugging gently at her forearm. Melissa felt warm sunlight on her face, illuminating her closed eyelids.
Morning.
She opened her eyes, slowly at first, testing for pain. When they came fully open, all the muscles around them rebelled against the movement.
“Waking up, are you?” Not the nurse this time.
A thirtyish man in blue hospital garb held her left hand, using both of his. He put it unhurriedly back down on the bedcovers, pulled a stool close, and sat down next to her.
“I’m Dr. Sears. You’re in University Hospital. Do you know how you got here?” His face looked kind, professional. A laminated badge hung from his pocket. Victor Sears, MD.
Melissa opened her lips. They were dry and hard. Her tongue felt thick.
“Here, try some apple juice.” He pressed the cup lightly against her lip, tipped it back just enough for her to sip.
“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely, and closed her eyes again.
“No, I don’t remember coming here, but . . .” She let out a long exhalation of breath. “But I remember what was happening.”
She opened her eyes again, peered under heavy lids at the doctor. “Am I—”
“You were not raped, Ms. Montalvo.” He looked down at a paper. “That is correct, is it not? You are Melissa Montalvo?”
“Yes.”
“Oooooh,” she exhaled again. “They didn’t do it?”
He held her hand again. “No, they surely tried and you have the bruises to prove it. It appears they were interrupted before they could”—he appeared to struggle for the word—“finish what they were doing.”
Melissa opened her eyes once more, saw that a nurse was now standing on the other side of the bed. Melissa smiled weakly at her. “Were you the one here last night?”
“No, honey. That was someone else. One of the night staff.”
Dr. Sears said, “There was another person, too. Younger than yourself, but I don’t have any information on her here. I’m sure you’ll learn more after you’re interviewed by the authorities. They’ll have the details.”
He smiled, squeezed her hand reassuringly. “But you. You’re alive, you’re healthy, and you’re going to be fine, physically. Just bruises and some abrasions.” Another squeeze of the hand. “These will heal. It’s the emotional, the psychological side of an attack like this that sometimes takes the longest to heal. We’ll get you some help with that.”
Melissa’s eyes moved up to the cold, white surface of the ceiling.
I’ll get my own help for that.
• • •
AFTER THE DOCTORS and nurses finally unplugged all of their equipment, they left her alone in the room to sort through her emotions and get cleaned up. She sat on the side of the bed, then put her feet down on the cold laminate floor.
With one hand on the wall for support, she stood up straight, found that her legs were sore but strong. She could walk without help.
Melissa stood in the bathroom, looked at her reflection in the mirror for the first time. Gauze bandages covered her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
She carefully lifted the first. A bright purple bruise the size of a tennis ball surrounded her left eye. It was lined with small fissures where bright red blood still wanted to ooze.
The rig
ht eye was better, an angry red abrasion underneath, and the white of her eye flooded with red blood. They had warned her about that, and told her not to be afraid. The blood was all under the surface and would go away on its own.
What kind of animal does this to another person?
Her neck hurt, her shoulders ached. She had never been beaten like this. Worst of all, she was not beautiful.
I can’t let Scott see me when I look like this. She replaced the bandages, piece by careful piece. Every touch on the surface of her skin was painful, some spots far more than others. She jerked her hand back in surprise when, unthinking, she pushed down on the tape in the wrong place, causing pain to flash across her flesh. She had to put both hands on the washbowl to steady herself until the throbbing subsided.
A police detective was coming by soon to interview her. She could get some answers then.
With great care she worked the toothbrush over and around her teeth. The gums were sore. One tooth was loose, but she knew that it would likely be fine. In any case, she would see the dentist and have it checked.
Feeling better, she brushed out her hair. Even that felt sore.
A knock on the door.
“Just a minute,” she started to call, then found that she couldn’t make her voice loud enough to be heard.
She pulled the bathroom door back and looked out. Two men in suits stood outside in the hallway, looking very official.
“Melissa Montalvo?”
She raised her hand, nodded, whispered, “Come in.” She looked around, saw only one chair in addition to the small stool by the bed. “I wasn’t quite ready.”
“Ms. Montalvo,” said the shorter of the two, “my name is Sam Deering, and this”—he indicated his partner—“is Alan Gorst.” Deering showed an official-looking badge in a leather holder. “We’re Indianapolis Metro detectives, and we’re investigating what happened to you last evening. Is this a good time to talk with you?”
Melissa went to the bed, found it difficult to lift herself up to sit.
“Please, sit on the chair. We won’t take much of your time this morning,” said the one named Gorst as he pulled the door closed behind him.
