by Noah Harris
Portia, too, would soon have to leave Fort Anaheim and forge her own life. No matter how different Jack’s upbringing may have been from his daughter’s, one thing was certain, Jack and Portia had both grown accustomed to these thick stone walls. They just meant something different to each of them.
“I’m going to do better, Frankie. I know I’ve been absent, and…and I don’t want her to go out into the world not knowing where to go or what to do because I didn’t prepare her enough, or because you and Clara coddled her.”
“I don’t coddle her, Jack,” Frankie snapped, and he sighed.
“You’re tough with her, but she’s most comfortable at home, Frankie. You said yourself, she has trouble at school with the other kids.” Frankie sighed and lowered her head, twirling the paring knife in her hands. “I want her to be well-rounded, and that means I need to be more involved. And I will be.”
“So you say, Jack,” she said slowly, and he looked away frustratedly. This was the side of Frankie he tried to avoid, sarcastic and barbed. He tore at the leftover bread crusts on his plate.
“I want her to have the full life I never got to have, so yes, I will be.” Frankie’s knife fell to the counter with a clatter, and she span around on him.
“You had a full life, Jack. You just didn’t do anything with it.” She was glaring at him now, and he stared back at her in surprise. “You had me, and Clara, and Fiona, if you’d taken the time to talk to her aside from just taking jobs. And now you have Portia. You could’ve had friends. We live on this fucking street filled with people just like you; have you ever once gone to Die Drachenmutter? Even a single time?”
“Well, no, but I don’t really like German food,” he said, trying to lighten her mood, and she huffed in irritation.
“There are dozens of dragons on those streets at any given time. Portia is a dragon, for fuck’s sake. But you’re too busy wallowing in your own self-pity disguised as…as noble isolation.” He looked down at his plate, sucking his cheeks in, then nodded. It was harsh, but it was the truth, and shame flooded him.
“You’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” she snapped, turning back around and resuming her fruit cutting.
“You have every right to be angry with me.”
“I don’t need your permission to be angry, Jack,” she bit out, and he nodded, swallowing thickly.
“You were right to divorce me, you know,” he said, watching her shoulders tense up as she chopped. She said nothing. “And you’re right to confront me like this. I’m acting like a fucking moron.”
“Yeah, you are,” she said with her back still toward him.
“You’re the parent I want to learn to be. I-I don’t have anything else I could even say. There aren’t enough apologies in the world for what a shitty partner and father I’ve been. I’m sorry.” Frankie froze, and Jack watched her knife hover over a stray strawberry. Then she put it down, and her ponytail bobbed up and down.
“Okay,” she said. He heard her sniffle and watched her swipe at her face, and when she turned around her cheeks were rosy and wet.
“Frankie…don’t cry,” he said regretfully, and she glared at him again.
“I’m not crying. I don’t cry,” she said, and he raised his eyebrows at her.
“I distinctly remember you crying two weeks ago when…”
“Shut up, Jack,” she laughed tearfully and then threw her arms around him. “I think this is a breakthrough,” she whispered in his ear, and he chuckled. “Well, one of them.”
“What’s the other one supposed to be?” he asked, and she leaned back.
“Well, there was that other thing I mentioned.” Ronnie. He looked into her eyes, hoping she might say it for him, force him to talk about it. He felt like he wasn’t on solid ground, whenever the question rose to his mind. Should I go for it? It died in the back of his throat. He was willing to talk about it, now, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it first.
“Frankie, I…”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I can satisfy myself knowing that you’ve at least thought about it,” she said warmly, her eyes glistening with receding tears. “Just promise me you will give it some consideration.” He hesitated, and then nodded, feeling like he was agreeing to something terrifying and something that possibly, for the first time in his life, had real promise.
“ALERT. ALERT. INTRUDER DETECTED. ALERT. ALERT.” The security system started screaming through the house, and Frankie jumped into action, leaping across the kitchen and grabbing her tablet.
“Mom? Dad?” Portia’s frightened voice floated into the kitchen, and Frankie pointed toward the exit.
“I’m locking the house down. Go get them,” she ordered. He hadn’t even scrambled out of his chair before Fiona came dashing into the room, followed by Portia and Ronnie. Portia ran into his arms, burying her face in his chest.
“What’s going on?” Ronnie asked, looking around in panic.
“Lockdown,” Fiona said simply, and then went to stand next to Frankie. She looked at the tablet over Frankie’s shoulder. Jack lifted Portia into the air and sat her on the countertop, and Ronnie came and stood on her other side. He looked up at Jack, who returned his intense gaze. He hoped it conveyed some kind of reassurance.
“My smoothie,” Portia said disappointedly, frowning at the half-cut fruit on the counter and the empty blender. “Does this mean I don’t have to go to school today?” Ronnie smiled painfully at her, but Jack shushed her.
“That camera,” Fiona said, and Frankie tapped the screen. “He’s got a gun,” she said calmly, and Frankie nodded. Portia gasped.
“On second thought, can I go to school?” she asked, her voice cracking. Jack held her hand, and she squeezed it, he felt like his heart was being crushed. He’d dealt with all this before, but not at home. Not with all the people he cared about. Fiona squinted intently at the screen.
“Lock down all the entrances and lower the bars on the windows. Lock the gates, too. I don’t want the gunman getting into the house or off the property. Let’s trap him in the back garden. Then we can guide him where we want him to go.”
Frankie followed Fiona’s directions, and Jack watched them, impressed. Fiona knew every inch of the grounds, and Frankie had an almost unnerving understanding of the security system.
“Fiona,” Ronnie breathed in astonishment, and she actually grinned at him.
“My job’s a little more complicated than I originally told you,” she said. “I’m going to take Portia to Clara’s wing. It’s the most secure wing of the house. The plan is going to get a little…sticky,” she said, glancing at Ronnie. Ronnie looked up at Jack fearfully, but Portia jumped down off the counter before he could say anything.
“I want to stay with Ronnie and Dad.”
“Absolutely not, young lady,” Frankie said, then looked at Jack for help.
“We need you to stay safe, and that means staying with Clara and Fiona,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Poe, please just do as we say.” She jutted her bottom lip out but nodded, looking back at Fiona.
“Alright, let’s go.” Fiona grabbed her hand and they strutted out of the room, through the lobby, and up the stairs. He heard Fiona’s heels click, click, click, and then disappear. Frankie sighed stressfully and then looked between Jack and Ronnie.
“Your headpiece in?”
“Yeah, why?” Jack asked, but suddenly, Fiona’s voice crackled to life in his ear. He winced at the volume.
“You guys aren’t going to like this, and you can’t tell Ronnie. We don’t need him getting noble on us.”
Plans Gone Awry
Ronnie
Ronnie felt his heart racing as the words gunman came out of Fiona’s mouth. In a flash, they were forging plans, ordering each other around, working a seamless system as he floundered in the middle of the kitchen, needing someone, anyone, to steady him.
“I want to stay with Ronnie and Dad,” Portia complained, pale eyes wid
e and ghostly, hypnotizing. He watched her face, and she looked imploringly at him as her parents fought, and eventually settled that she would go with Fiona and Clara to her wing of the house, where, Ronnie presumed, she’d been hiding away while he’d been here. Then Fiona was whisking Portia away, her dark, wild hair cascading behind her as they jogged out of the room. Everything moved like a dream, too fast, soundless. He felt distinctly in his body, heavy and grounded and about to sink into the floor, and yet somehow weightless, like his petrified soul was floating above him, trying to escape.
“Your headpiece in?” Frankie suddenly asked, looking between him and Jack. Ronnie looked up at Jack in confusion, but Jack just nodded.
“Yeah, why?” He tapped his ear and furrowed his eyebrows, and Ronnie heard a quiet crackling, like someone’s voice coming out through a tiny microphone.
“Guys?” he asked, feeling like he was dissociated and trapped all at the same time. Neither of them would look at him, staring at one another as some evidently secret message got relayed to them.
“Got it?” Frankie asked Jack, and he nodded.
“Let’s go, Ronnie,” he said gruffly, looking around cautiously and then leading Ronnie out of the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Ronnie demanded, his voice breaking, and Jack winced and looked down at him.
“I’m sorry, Ronnie. I can’t tell you. It’s for your own safety,” he explained, and Ronnie shook his head in bewilderment as they approached the panel to the basement’s tunnel system.
“Can you at least tell me…can I do anything?” He looked up urgently at Jack, but Jack looked right over the top of his head, ushering Ronnie into the passageway. “Jack.”
“That’s exactly why I can’t tell you, Ronnie. I can’t risk you trying to help and getting hurt,” he said regrettably, shutting the panel behind them.
“What? Jack, I can help,” he argued. Jack pushed him along the hallways, not allowing him to turn around and argue his case.
“Ronnie, no offense, really, don’t take this the wrong way. You’re tiny, and you have no fighting or crisis experience. Please let me handle this,” Jack said, his voice sounding almost like he was begging. How could he be so desperate for Ronnie to sit, stationary, and allow everyone around him to get hurt on his account? There had to be something he could do.
As Jack escorted him into his room and then pulled out bag after bag of weapons and ammunition, he stood fretfully and thought about the gunman prowling the manor’s grounds. It had to be Perry, he’d been on Drake Street for him, not to meet with people. He could’ve just called the men strong-arming him, he hadn’t needed to come to Drake Street in person. And what were the odds that it was Drake Street where they decided to meet?
And what about the man in the bar with the hood watching him and Lucy? And now there was a gunman on the property, all within days, even hours, of Perry showing up. It wasn’t a coincidence, it was the truth. Perry had sent the letters. He’d always been a master manipulator, it was no wonder Frankie J and Jack had moved on to the next possible suspect.
Jack had still to have doubts about Perry, too. Maybe he just wasn’t saying it, right now, he was too busy loading so many guns that Ronnie felt dizzy.
Ronnie only felt lucky that Lucy had shown up, although he hated that she, too, had been receiving letters. If Lucy hadn’t shown up, he perhaps would’ve done the same, moved on to the next possible suspect. The information they’d given Perry’s other old clients was enough to bury him for the money scams he’d run, the general verbal abuse of his clients; but it wasn’t enough for Ronnie. The only way to end this, to give beyond-a-doubt proof for Perry’s motives to threaten him with those letters, and send him to jail, was to come clean. To everyone.
Yes. He had to. But when?
“Yes, Frankie, I know. Frankie, I’ve got it, relax,” Jack said, and Ronnie stared at him. How was his earpiece still working? The tunnels were supposed to cut off all technology. But, had Frankie somehow fixed it, so she could have access to Jack’s? Did that mean his phone would work?
Ronnie pulled his phone out and looked anxiously at Jack, who didn’t notice the movement. He opened Instagram and started a live video, streaming directly to all his followers. With a breath of shaky relief, he saw the video was working, it was uploading.
Another deep breath and Ronnie stared directly into the camera.
“Hi, everyone,” he began, and Jack turned around abruptly, staring at Ronnie as if he’d already been shot.
“Ronnie,” he breathed, shaking his head. Ronnie stuttered, looking at Jack. He had to do this. He hoped Jack would understand.
“My name…my name is Ronnie Redcliff, and there’s some things I have to tell you all. Uh, Perry Johnson used to be my agent. Lucy Lazenby and Travis Caulfield worked with me under Perry at the same time, and they’ve witnessed what I’m about to tell you all,” he said, then paused, looking at Jack, his heart beating wildly in his chest.
Then, slowly, Jack nodded encouragingly. Ronnie bit his lip.
“When I was sixteen years old, Perry Johnson began…he began, um, taking advantage of me. R-raping me. He started grooming me when I was thirteen, and as soon as I reached the age of consent in California, it all started.” Ronnie looked fearfully at Jack, feeling terrified and powerful and as if he’d never come back from this, but Jack only smiled proudly at him. He felt his heart hammer in his chest at the look and then stared back into the camera. “I don’t have proof that Perry’s done this to other people, but I have witnesses and I have medical records that show my…my injuries and my trauma. But I-I was young and scared. I should’ve come forward sooner. I’m worried this has happened to other people, all because I was a-a coward.”
Jack took a few steps closer, watching him with something akin to amazement, it was pride, and it was also a strange sparkle in his eye. Ronnie’s heart constricted, and he felt all Jack’s strength and bravery course through him like Jack was fueling him, transferring some of it to him.
“But now you know. Perry Johnson is a despicable, abusive, manipulative, lying monster, and everyone should know it. I, and others, have been receiving letters threatening us and our families, from Perry. If anyone that’s watching has the authority, Perry has several hideouts that I can give addresses for if you contact me.” Jack nodded and gave him a thumbs-up, obviously happy that Ronnie had used discretion about Perry’s location so the right people would find him and prosecute him. Then Ronnie looked back into the camera, a tired smile stretching his face without him even realizing. He felt lighter. “I guess…I guess that’s it. Thanks for watching.” He ended the video and dropped his arm, feeling exhilarated, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, like he could run a marathon.
“Ronnie,” Jack began, clearly impressed. Ronnie steadied his breathing and looked up at Jack, nodding absently.
“Everything is going to change, now,” he said, and Jack nodded.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“No secrets left. Everything is…is out in the open. All the worst parts of my life are out in the universe now,” he said, wringing his hands. Then he felt the relief of his words hit him and smiled up at Jack. “No matter what happens now, my old life of hiding and being scared is over. I got him.” It was thrilling, and Ronnie felt himself starting to bounce on the balls of his feet. He needed to do something, walk around, throw his hands up in the air and touch the sky, but then he realized he was still underground, in Jack’s bedroom.
He looked at Jack and then let out a shuddering breath. If not for Jack, he wouldn’t have had the courage to do what he’d just done. In fact, the moment he’d heard the word gunman and been dragged into the basement, he probably would have spiraled into a debilitating panic attack. But he hadn’t, because Jack had been here.
“Ronnie, you okay?” Jack asked, stepping forward tentatively. Ronnie grinned up at him and nodded, then lunged forward, throwing his arms around Jack’s neck. The smell of Jack, the slight salt from
his crisis-induced sweating, the muskiness of his chest and neck, the fresh smell of his shampoo and cologne, sent a thrill down his spine, sucked all the air from his lungs. He had imagined being this close to Jack, that night in the motel, but had never imagined he would smell so good. He looked up at Jack, who was looking down at him in surprise and, Ronnie thought with a shiver, lust. Jack’s lips were slightly parted, full and dark pink, his beard a little unruly after the past few stressful days.
As if the energy had started in the floor and traveled through his feet, up his quivering legs, through his stomach and chest, he felt himself rising, panting, looking between Jack’s foggy eyes and his harshly breathing mouth.
Jack cleared his throat when he suddenly pulled away, holding Ronnie at arm’s length. Ronnie’s heart dropped into his stomach, he felt it disintegrating in his stomach acid.
“I’m sorry,” Ronnie murmured, and Jack pulled him back in.
“No, it’s not you. Just…we have a situation upstairs, remember?” he asked, and Ronnie almost laughed in relief. It wasn’t him.
“Right, yeah, of course,” he said, shaking his head. “Right.”
“I, um, I should probably get out there. Frankie’s yelling in my ear.” Ronnie listened for a moment and heard the distorted screeching coming from Jack’s earpiece. He cleared his throat and backed away, nodding understandingly. “But, listen, don’t worry. The others are safe, and you just did an amazing, brave thing. Everyone is going to be proud of you. I’m…I’m proud of you,” he said gruffly, and Ronnie smiled tearfully at him, feeling like this freedom to be honest with himself and the world, was overwhelming. He kept forgetting there was even a threat. “You have to stay here, though.”
