Tessa (From Fear to Faith)

by Melissa Wiltrout

  Table of Contents

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  49

  50

  51

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  Resources

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Tessa

  From Fear to Faith

  Melissa Wiltrout

  Click this link to watch author’s introduction video

  1

  Stop! Thief!”

  Fear stabbed my chest. I dodged in front of a loaded shopping cart and shoved through the outer set of glass doors at Allen’s Super Foods. The plastic bag of hot dogs and bread knocked against my leg as I took a sharp left and sprinted down the dark sidewalk.

  “Stop, you punk!” Footsteps pounded close behind me. I could hear heavy breathing. I ran faster, willing all my energy into my legs. My breath came in ragged gasps. I kept my eyes fixed on the lights of the busy street half a block ahead. I sure hope there’s a break in the traffic. There’s no way I’m gonna be able to stop if there isn’t…

  I had cleared the far end of the building and was racing across the final stretch of parking lot when the clerk caught up with me. He grabbed my shoulders and kicked me in the legs, slamming me to the pavement. I screamed as pain ripped through my right ankle and leg. He threw himself on top of me, closing huge hands around my neck and shoulders. “I got you now, you punk.”

  His sudden weight on my back left me breathless. I struggled to roll him off, but he tightened his grip. His knee pressed into my back and his fingernails dug into my shoulder like claws. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “I . . . can’t breathe,” I gasped. “Get . . . off of me.”

  “That’s what you all say. I’ll get off of you all right – when the police get here.” As he spoke, he shifted his weight higher on my back. My chest began to hurt.

  “No,” I pleaded. “Stop. You’re . . . killing me.”

  “Shut up,” he said. I heard a faint beep, beep as he pressed the buttons on his cell phone. I was crying. Sharp pains shot up my leg from my twisted ankle, and I was helpless to relieve them. Cold pavement bit into my chin. I tasted blood where I’d cut my lip falling. I made one more attempt to free myself, but it was no use. The guy must’ve weighed two hundred pounds. At last a police cruiser pulled up with its lights flashing, and an officer stepped out.

  “You Bruce Sommerfeld?” he said to the clerk.

  “I am.”

  “You can let go now. I’ve got her.”

  Bruce surrendered his grip on me reluctantly. “I caught this little punk red-handed. And it’s not the first time she’s pulled this. I can prove it.”

  I took a breath and started to push myself up, but the officer stopped me, pulling my hands behind my back. Cold metal clamped around my left wrist, then my right. What on earth was he doing? Handcuffing me? I hoped nobody was watching.

  Fresh pain shot through my ankle as the officer pulled me to my feet. “So you were shoplifting, huh?” he said.

  It wasn’t a dream this time. I was being arrested.

  “I didn’t do nothin’. I swear!” Frantically I tried to wrench free of the steel cuffs. “He’s lying. He hates me. You all hate me!”

  “That’s enough. Settle down.” A second officer, a woman, stepped close and took my other arm. She began steering me toward the black and white car. “My name’s Pat. And you are . . . ?”

  I didn’t answer. My wrists stung from my fight with the cuffs. I had never felt so helpless and humiliated in my life.

  Pat opened the rear door of the cruiser. “Okay, in you go.”

  I hesitated as my eyes took in the hard black seat, the bars over the window, the mesh divider. This was for criminals, not for somebody like me. Did I have to get in? But the firm pressure on my arm told me I had no choice. I dropped into the seat, my face hot, wincing as my hurt ankle bumped the door frame.

  I fit in there – sort of. There wasn’t more than eight inches of knee room in front of that seat, and with my hands squashed behind my back, I was miserable to say the least. They didn’t really expect me to ride like this, did they?

  Tears pricked my eyes. I bit my lip hard to restrain them. Through the barred window, I saw Bruce enter the store with my bag of food. As if he needed it. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

  “How old are you, kid?” Pat twisted around to look at me from the driver’s seat.

  “Old enough.”

  “Old enough to be on your own?”

  In the darkness, I felt my face flush. Is it that obvious I’m a runaway? I thought of the stains on my jeans, the long, jagged tear in the sleeve of my purple sweatshirt, and the shiny wire I’d used to reattach the soles of my worn tennis shoes – all things I had convinced myself no one would notice. I must’ve been crazy.

  Heat blew into the back of the car, raising a smell of sweat and dirty clothes. I tried to flip back the tangled locks of dark hair that kept falling across my face. My teeth chattered, but not from cold. I was scared of being put in jail.

  The ride to the Northford Police Station was short. Pat pulled into the garage. From there, she marched me into a long narrow room. I squinted against the glare of fluorescent lights. Pat removed the handcuffs and directed me to one of the plastic chairs at a small table.

  I sank into the chair, glad to get off my hurt ankle. By now it had swollen to the size of a small grapefruit. The pain was agonizing. Had I broken it? I leaned forward and with one hand loosened my shoelaces. Even that was a painful operation. Making it all the way back to the garage where I was staying would be impossible.

  “Did you hurt your ankle?” Pat asked. She pulled the other chair around to sit facing me.

  I stiffened. “It’ll be okay.” Did she have to sit so close to me?

  “You sure? You were limping on the way in.”

  I hesitated, torn by the sympathy in her voice. But did I dare confide in a cop?

  “It’s nothing, really. I-I got a charley horse.”

  “I see. How long has it been since you left home?”

  “Awhile.” My eyes traced the green and white tiles at my feet. If only I could get rid of that lump in my throat that threatened to make me cry.

  “Like a week? Ten days?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” It had been longer, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “That’s a long time. Have you been stealing food this whole time?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Yes?” she pressed. “How much is s
ome?”

  “Most of it, I guess.”

  “You know stealing is a crime, don’t you? You can be fined and even imprisoned for it. If you need food, there are better ways to get it.”

  “Well yeah, but –”

  “No buts. Maybe no one’s ever told you this, but stealing is wrong. It’s serious. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. What did Pat know? She’d never gone hungry or spent the night under a deck in the drizzling rain. It wasn’t like I’d hurt somebody. The store would never miss what little I’d taken.

  Pat shuffled a few papers on her lap. “I understand the store is not pressing charges this time. However…” She paused for emphasis. “If this sort of thing happens again, you will be charged with retail theft. You’ll have to go to court and pay the consequences. Plus it will get on your record. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.” I felt a tiny glimmer of hope. “Does this mean you’re gonna let me go?”

  “It means your parents will have to come get you. I take it you’re not on the best terms with them just now. Am I right?”

  I exhaled slowly. My sweaty hands clenched in my lap. I should’ve known they’d call my parents.

  I felt Pat eyeing me. “It’s that bad, huh? Want to talk about it?”

  My mind raced. For a second I considered it, but then I shook my head. Talking would only make things worse. Much worse.

  Pat was still watching me. “I’ve got the time,” she said.

  I shook my head harder. “Can’t you just let me go? It’s not like I’m gonna do this again or something.”

  “Sorry, but it’s not my call. Rules are rules.” Pat laid her papers on the table. “You’re Tessa Miner, am I right? And your parents are Walter and Julie Miner?”

  I gulped. How did she know that?

  “Is this phone number correct?”

  I had to stop her somehow. “Look, you don’t hafta call them, okay? I-I’ll just walk home.”

  Pat stood up.

  “Can’t I? I’ll go right home, I promise. It’s not that far, and…”

  “Ten miles with a hurt ankle isn’t far, huh?” There was sarcasm in her voice now. She shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way, Tessa.”

  I was trapped. There was no way out. Even supposing the doors weren’t locked, I’d never escape with this ankle. The muscles in my chest constricted, suffocating me. I leaned my elbows on the table and forced myself to breathe. I needed to be at my best to face Walter.

  Walter. The name dredged up images I didn’t want to remember. I could see my father standing there, his hands on his hips as he screamed at me.

  “You idiot, what’d you do that for!”

  “You’re coming if I gotta drag you there! Now get out here!”

  “Guess you didn’t listen, did you. Well, this time I’ll make you!”

  I could see the home place – the shabby white house with its sagging porch, the huge junk heap in the back yard, and my dad’s green, almost-brand-new pickup truck parked in the driveway. I could smell the cigarette smoke and the coffee. I could see, too, the secret garden by the back fence that was my dad’s special concern. He allowed Mom to plant hibiscus and hollyhocks along the edge, but the rest was off limits. I learned this the day I tried to capture a baby rabbit that was trapped inside the fence. Walter caught me in there and beat me bloody, even though I hadn’t damaged anything.

  I could see the old shed near the garden, where Walter had locked me up for two days after my last attempt at running away. I recalled the torture of spending a night leaning up against the lawnmower, my back aching like fire while I tried to ignore the rodents scurrying and chewing in the walls around me. I’d be lucky if that was all I had to face this time.

  A sudden noise in the room caused me to start in fear. Had my father come already? But it was only Pat dropping a pen. I sank back, my heart still pounding. If only I could awaken from this nightmare. But try as I did, I could not suppress the memories which played like a bad movie across my mind.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Tessa, your father’s here.”

  2

  Walter was standing, arms folded, in the lobby of the police station. He looked the same as always – stained zip-front jacket, oversized pair of dirty Levis, scuffed boots. Stubble covered his chin. A crumpled baseball cap, more pink than red after a summer of wear, topped a tangle of curly hair that should have been trimmed weeks ago. His eyes hardened when he saw me.

  “So here’s the tramp.” He clamped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Told you I’d find you.” His steel blue eyes bored right through me.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Walter wasted no time. “Well, come on. You’re needed at home.” Grasping me by the arm, he walked me out to the pickup. I fought to conceal the agony of each step. If he found out about my ankle, he’d take advantage of it somehow.

  The familiar odor of smoke and stale mouse nests greeted me as I swung up into the warm cab. Walter slammed the door behind me and walked around to the driver’s side. The radio burst to life when he turned the key – the same disgusting rock station he always listened to.

  I hunched in the seat, picking at the hole in my jeans as Walter pulled the truck away from the curb. He drove in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw set. Wasn’t he going to yell at me? Threaten me? Tell me how much trouble I’d be in when I got home?

  Buildings slipped past my window – the bakery, the print shop, the senior center, the public library – all of them closed and dark. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. Why was Walter driving up through the east end of town? He should have turned on Main Street, a block from the police station, and taken the bridge out of town.

  I tried to quiet my fears. No doubt he was planning to stop at one of the taverns along the river. But when he turned on Washington Avenue and crossed the river, leaving the city behind, I knew I was in trouble.

  “Where are we going?” I ventured.

  Walter didn’t reply. The road snaked through a large industrial development and bumped over three sets of railroad tracks before taking us out into the country. Fearfully I stared into the passing woods. Not only did I have no idea where we were, but the occasional houses were separated by long stretches of forest. I was alone in the middle of nowhere with a man I knew would hurt me.

  I kept trying to think of a way to escape. But I had no weapon of any kind, and even if I managed to get out of the truck, I wouldn’t be able to run on account of my stupid ankle. Briefly I wondered if it would do any good to pray.

  Rounding one of the curves, Walter braked and turned down a rutted dirt lane. Trees arched overhead and branches slashed the sides of the truck as we careened ahead. I gripped the seat with both hands and held my breath, too scared to ask what he was doing.

  Maybe I should have talked to Pat. The thought haunted me. It was too late now.

  Walter kept driving and soon turned onto a one-lane gravel road. I strained my eyes through the darkness for a road sign, but could find none. My fear increased as I realized Walter could do anything to me here, even kill me, and get away with it. I contemplated jumping from the truck, but at fifty miles an hour, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If only I’d had the sense to escape while we were yet in town.

  A short distance down the road, the trees gave way to grassland. Moonlight shimmered off a wide creek. Here Walter pulled partly off the narrow road and jammed on the brakes.

  I had my door unlatched even before the truck came to a stop. Hurt ankle or not, I was determined to run. But my door wouldn’t open. I pushed harder, but to no avail. Walter had parked against a guardrail.

  I had no time to react. Walter reached over and shoved me, slamming my head into the door frame. Then he began dragging me across th
e seat. I grabbed the steering wheel and we wrestled for a moment, but I was no match for his two hundred pounds of muscle.

  He pulled me from the truck and threw me to the ground. “This’ll teach you to rat on me!” he yelled. “Nobody pulls that on me and gets away with it!”

  What? Too shaken and terrified to argue, I started screaming.

  If anything, that seemed to fuel Walter’s rage. He grabbed me by the hair and began to smash my face into the hard-packed gravel. I could feel the sharp edges cutting into my skin. I quickly put up my hand to cushion the blows. Blood streamed from my nose and down into my mouth, gagging me.

  Walter yanked me upright and shook me, then slammed me down again, this time on my back. I heard a sickening crunch as my head struck the rocks. I tried to roll over, but Walter grabbed my shoulders and slammed me down again.

  As the beating continued, I realized he was going to kill me if I didn’t do something. But what?

  Play dead. The thought came automatically, as if it was programmed into me for situations like this. I stopped screaming and went limp.

  It worked. Walter slammed me down one more time and stopped. I lay motionless on the ground, in great pain, too scared to breathe. Would he leave me for dead? Or was he waiting for me to revive so he could beat me some more?

  A slight chill passed over me, like a night breeze or maybe a warning. I inched my eyes open. What I saw made me gasp. Walter’s big .45 pistol was pressed into my forehead.

  Terror constricted my throat so tightly I couldn’t scream. The gun stared unmoving, the smooth metal gleaming in the moonlight. I felt sick to my stomach. My vision blurred. Then, through a sort of haze, I saw Walter lower the gun and step back.

  “All right, get up. Quit that stupid crying and start walking. You got a long ways to go.”

  I just stared, unable to process what was happening.

  “Come on, move!” He jerked me to my feet, then followed up with a shove which sent me sprawling.

  “Move!” he screamed.

  Somehow I managed to get to my feet. I stumbled a few dozen yards before I fell again, twisting my injured ankle worse than ever. I began sobbing uncontrollably.