by T. R. Ragan
Mom’s jaw hardened.
The side door behind Mom, the one leading to the backyard, came open. Dad stepped into the kitchen. He looked from face to face, his gaze stopping at his brother. “I told you not to come around while Sawyer’s here.”
“I just wanted to stop by and see if you and Joyce needed help this morning. You know, before the service.”
Sawyer tried to read the silent exchange between her parents, but it was impossible to tell if the dynamics of their relationship had changed. Mom had always worn the pants in the family. She almost always had the upper hand. When they disagreed, she usually won. But Dad surprised her by pointing his finger toward the exit. “Get out,” he told his brother. “Now.”
“I helped take care of Sally,” Uncle Theo argued. “I’m family too.”
“I’m not going to try to stop you from going to funeral,” Dad said. “But you’re not welcome in this house.”
Uncle Theo pouted. “At least tell her how I’ve changed. How I found God and made amends. I’m not who I used to be. Tell her.”
The blood in Sawyer’s veins was boiling. If he didn’t leave soon, she might just strangle him with her bare hands. “I don’t care,” she said. “You ruined my life and my sisters’ lives. Nothing you could say would ever make up for what you did.”
“Go!” Dad said to his brother.
Mom said nothing.
Uncle Theo headed back the way he’d come.
Sawyer heard the door open and close.
She couldn’t breathe. The thought that she might see him during her visit had crossed her mind, but nothing could have prepared her for the outpouring of emotions that threatened to bring her to her knees. Her insides quivered. “I’m going to get dressed and then drive to town,” Sawyer said, afraid she might break down if she didn’t get away. “I’ll see you both at the chapel.”
“What about breakfast?” Mom asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At 8:00 a.m., Malice parked on Nineteenth Street, closer to Brad’s house. To the left of his home was an alleyway followed by a Queen Anne Victorian with a large porch and a FOR RENT sign in the front window. The house to the right of Brad’s was occupied. Last night, through a bathroom window, she’d watched a woman leave the house with a dog on a leash. Thirty minutes later, Malice happened to peek through the blinds from the main room when she returned. The neighbor wore dark leggings and a T-shirt. Her dirty-blonde hair had been tied back in a ponytail. Malice guessed the woman to be in her late thirties.
That same neighbor was now leaving her house again. This time without the dog. She used a key to lock the front door, slipped it into her bag, and walked down the front steps. When she got to the street, she stopped to stare at Brad’s house.
A chill washed over Malice. What was the woman doing? Had she heard something? A strange noise?
Malice didn’t take another breath until the woman started off down the street. Today she was dressed in slacks, heels, and a pink shirt with a froth of petals on the sleeves. The woman suddenly pivoted and looked directly at her.
Malice froze, didn’t take a breath until the woman climbed into her Subaru and drove away.
Had she seen her?
Cleo and Psycho had spent the night with Brad. Malice pulled her baseball cap on and tugged it low over her eyes. She grabbed the bag of food she’d brought, climbed out of her car, and crossed the street, making sure the heel of her boots didn’t land too hard on the pavement as she went along.
A dog barked in the far distance. Leaves fluttered from trees like rain, sticking to her hair and shirt.
Something niggled. Am I being watched?
Paranoia could be a sneaky beast, pressing against her chest, hanging on to her like a needy child. She continued on at a steady pace. Nothing to see here, she thought as she made her way through the side gate and slipped into the cover of Brad’s backyard. Only then, safe beneath the covered patio leading into the bottom half of his house, did she take a breath.
Her hands were clammy, her heart beating wildly. As she collected herself, she set the food on the bench outside the door and replaced the cap on her head with a wig. Next came the mask that Cleo had made from neoprene.
The paranoia wasn’t going away. She found herself second-guessing everything they were doing. Why am I here? Risking everything? Will teaching one asshole out of thousands make things better for me?
Her thoughts were replaced by her abuser’s face, clear as day. His hands felt rough, calloused, his fingers touching, groping, his tongue wet against her skin, his body heavy, his breath on her ear, his words—threats of violence—holding her captive.
And just like that, she was being violated all over again.
She felt the disgrace, shame, guilt, and embarrassment until shock set in, leaving fear in its wake. Her body had shut down—eyes closed, muscles lax, mind drifting—as he took everything and left nothing.
A car backfired.
Her eyes shot open, surprising her since she wasn’t aware that she’d closed them. She filled her lungs with air as anger replaced all else, swirling around her like a mini tornado. It irked her to think, even for one second, she’d questioned what she and the rest of The Crew were doing.
Brad had done his best to break Lily down, take control of her body and mind. What would he have done to Cleo had they not intervened? How many others had he damaged? It stunned her that she felt this sudden need to think of these things at all. Brad was scum, a pervert who needed to drug women and tie them up to give him a momentary sense of self-worth to make him feel secure and manly.
Malice reached out and held firmly to the doorknob, turned it, stepped inside, and shut the door behind her. Facing the bar, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark through the tiny slits of synthetic rubber.
The curtains had been tightly drawn. Without any light coming from the downstairs bathroom, the room was much darker than it had been last night. She focused on the spot where she’d last seen Brad. A distorted shadow caught her eye. “Cleo, is that you?”
There was movement to her right. Chills washed over her. A rustling sound, and then a strong hand grasped on to her ankle and held tight.
She struggled to free her leg but was yanked to the floor instead. The contents of the bag she’d been carrying scattered about, and her head struck a hard object, sending a sharp ache through her skull.
Despite the pain, she managed to stay alert. She couldn’t see him, but she knew it was Brad who was tugging on her leg. The anger she’d felt minutes ago morphed into rage as he dragged her toward him. All uncertainty left her. She knew what to do. Feigning unconsciousness, she let him pull her closer. How many times had she lain awake at night, imagining what she would do if she were ever attacked?
Too many.
She could hear him breathing. Smell his stench. She was deadweight. He was weak and tired. His other hand reached for her leg, his knuckles brushed against her calf. She drew back her free leg and slammed her booted foot straight ahead, making contact with his chest or face, she had no idea which and didn’t care.
He let out a deep guttural sound but refused to let go.
They both knew this might be his best and last chance at escaping.
Drawing back her leg, she kicked him again, this time with more force. The bastard wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t let go!
Adrenaline filled her. She felt invincible as she pulled her leg back and struck again and again. She didn’t stop until she heard the drumbeat of footsteps hitting the stairs.
Lights came on.
Only then did she realize he’d let go of her. Lifting her head, Malice saw the damage she’d done. His face was a bloody pulp. From behind her she felt Psycho latch on to both of her arms and pull her away from the bloody mess. Psycho was strong. She lifted Malice into her arms and onto the couch without much effort. “Are you okay?” Psycho asked. “You’re bleeding.”
“I hit my head when he
yanked me to the floor.”
“Lie here for a minute.” Psycho left her side.
“You did some damage,” Cleo said, “but he’s still breathing. How did he get loose?”
“All I know,” Malice said, “is that the son of a bitch messed with the wrong person this morning.”
Nobody argued with that.
“He’s out cold.” Psycho knelt down close to Brad, assessing the situation. “Looks to me as if he twisted and turned his wrists all night long and was able to loosen the tape enough to pull one of his hands free. If you hadn’t come when you did,” she told Malice, “he would have escaped, probably would have run to the neighbors to call the police.”
Malice didn’t want to think about what could have happened. She reached for a napkin that had flown from the bag of food when she dropped it and used it to dab at the gash on her head.
Psycho dragged Brad back to the bar area, rolled him onto his stomach so she could bind his wrists behind his back before fastening him to an old but sturdy built-in radiator. “Good thing Brad keeps a nice big supply of duct tape in his house,” she said as she worked.
While Psycho took care of Brad, Cleo cleaned up the mess by the door. She held something up between her fingers. “Looks like you kicked out one of his teeth.”
“Nice,” Psycho said.
Malice pushed herself to a sitting position. When the dizziness passed, she stood and picked up the napkins and the breakfast sandwiches she’d bought and put it all on the coffee table. She grabbed a sandwich. “I’m hungry. Did anyone make coffee?”
“It’s brewing now,” Cleo said.
Once everything was cleaned up, Psycho and Malice ate their sandwiches and drank coffee at the bar as they talked about what to do next.
Cleo sat on the couch with Brad’s laptop and a pile of papers she’d found stuffed away in his bedroom closet.
They had no idea Brad had come to until he spit out a mouthful of blood and said, “You bitches will pay for this.” He let out a growl as he tried to free himself. “My good friend is a cop. When he finds out I haven’t been to work, he’ll be knocking on my door.”
“The second I find proof of what you’ve done, your ass will be dragged to jail by that same friend,” Psycho told him.
“There are no videos,” Brad told her. “You’re wasting your time.”
Psycho snorted. “Bullshit. All serial rapists keep videos so they can relive that moment when they had power. Because with guys like you, that’s what it’s all about.”
“I’ll find you,” he said. “Every one of you. You’re all dead.”
“You try so hard to be a big scary dude, don’t you, Bradley? But you need to tie women up to get a hard-on?”
“Fuck you,” he said. One of his eyes was swollen shut. His nose had been flattened, definitely broken.
Psycho stood, grabbed a cue stick, and used it to poke at his crotch. “What’s under there, I wonder? A tiny little worm, I bet.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said. “Go ahead and take a look. I don’t mind.”
“The only reason I would go near your dick would be to cut it clean off and toss it in the garbage disposal.” Psycho scrunched up her face. “Make a little mincemeat out of your little willy.”
Cleo let out a low whistle and jabbed an arm in the air. “Do it!”
“I’m not sure being here is safe,” Malice said. “I saw the neighbor staring at Brad’s house on her way out. I mean, she didn’t just glance at it, she stopped and stared for a long while.”
“That woman is hot for me,” Brad said.
Psycho ignored him. They all did. “I thought we were sticking with the plan?” Psycho asked.
The doorbell rang.
Malice cursed under her breath. She pointed at Brad. “Gag him!”
Psycho grabbed one of the washcloths Cleo had used to clean up and shoved it in his mouth before winding duct tape around the lower half of his face.
Cleo set the laptop aside, caught up to Malice, and followed her up the stairs to the front room. The curtains were drawn. Nobody could see them as they made their way to the entry door. Cleo peered through the peephole. “I can’t believe it. It’s him.”
“Who?”
“The waiter who served me and Brad at the Blue Fox.”
Before Malice had a chance to let that sink in, Cleo opened the door, took a fistful of the man’s shirt, and yanked him into the house.
Malice shut the door and locked it. Her heart was racing. Things were spiraling out of control. By the time she turned around, Cleo had him pinned to the floor, a knife at his throat.
Psycho rushed up the stairs. Her gaze fell to the man on the floor. “What’s going on?”
“We need the rope and duct tape!” Malice dropped to the floor to hold the man’s legs to stop him from flailing around.
Psycho disappeared back down the stairs and returned seconds later with the tape and used it to bind his wrists, knees, and ankles. It helped that the waiter was young and bony, likely had never set foot in a gym in his life. His eyes were wide open. He’d already pissed in his pants.
Cleo stopped Psycho from taping his mouth shut. “In a minute,” she said. “Why are you here?” Cleo asked the waiter.
“He invited me.”
“Brad?”
“Yes.”
“Invited you here to have sex with me?”
“Yes.”
“Have you done this before?”
He looked confused.
“I’m not asking if you’ve had sex before. I’m asking if you’ve come here to this house to have sex with one of Brad’s dinner dates?”
He shook his head.
“You’re a liar. I know you’ve done this before.”
“Okay. Y-yes. Last time I only watched.”
“What kind of sick fuck are you?”
“I don’t know.” His lips and chin trembled. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re only sorry because we caught your ass.”
He was crying now, snot oozing out of his nose.
Cleo looked at Malice. “This is bullshit. He came here to rape me!”
His sobbing was getting out of control.
“Shut up,” Cleo told him, “or I’ll end it for you right now.”
“I think you should take a breath and calm down,” Malice told Cleo.
Cleo peered into her eyes, and that’s when Malice realized she was pissed but not out of control. She wanted to scare the waiter.
“The asshole,” Cleo said through gritted teeth, her spittle hitting his cheek, “was going to do whatever he wanted with me while Brad watched, and then vice versa. I’m livid. You would be too if it had been you,” she said. “If he doesn’t tell me everything I want to know, I’m going to kill him.”
“Please,” he begged.
“Psycho,” Cleo said, “I want to get his confession on video.”
Psycho stood over them. She pulled out her cell, pushed some buttons, and kept it aimed on the man. “Ready.”
Cleo glared at the waiter. “Answer my questions truthfully and we’ll let you go.”
He nodded.
“How long have you worked at the Blue Fox?” Cleo asked him.
“Two years.”
“What did you put in the wine?”
“Rohypnol.”
“Did Brad give you the drug?”
He nodded.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Yes.”
“The last time you were at Brad Vicente’s house, did Brad video the event?” Malice asked, hoping he would fall for the ploy since they still hadn’t found any evidence that he kept images or videos.
He said nothing, prompting Cleo to press the blade closer to his throat. A drop of blood appeared.
Malice hoped she knew what she was doing.
Psycho zoomed in on the waiter’s face. “Answer her, asshole!”
“Yes!” he said, sobbing anew. “He took a video. He always took videos.”
>
Malice gestured for Psycho to turn off the video. Once that was done, she said, “Let’s cover his face and drag him downstairs. We need to focus on finding those videos.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sawyer parked in an empty lot, climbed out, and walked down Frontage Road toward the doughnut shop. The place was surprisingly crowded.
“Sawyer Brooks, is that you?”
Sawyer smiled when she saw Old Lady McGrady. That’s what she and her sisters used to call her when they were small. She and her husband, Harold, used to run a popular tourist attraction called River Rock Gold where they taught visitors to pan for gold in the creeks and streams. Harold used to love talking about the years from 1880 to 1959 when thousands of gold miners were all crowded together, searching for gold, and how ninety ounces was often recovered in a single pan. Harold had been one of the lucky prospectors, able to live nicely off his finds. He knew how to find hidden pockets in the bedrock. Sadly, he passed away months before Sawyer left for Sacramento. Had a stroke while panning and was found facedown in what his friends called a hot spot, leaving his wife with enough gold to pay for his funeral and then some. Old Lady McGrady had to be in her mid to late eighties by now.
Sawyer waved. “I’ll be right there.” She ordered a coffee and a maple bar and brought them to the table where Old Lady McGrady was sitting alone. “Mind if I join you?”
“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
Sawyer took a seat. Old Lady McGrady’s long silver hair had been loosely braided in one long strand that hung over her shoulder. Her skin was wrinkled and weathered with age, but her eyes were as clear and blue as Lake Shasta.
“Go ahead,” she said to Sawyer. “Eat!”
Sawyer took a bite. The doughnut melted in her mouth. It was delicious. So was the coffee. Her stomach grumbled. She realized she’d hardly eaten in two days.
“I’m going to miss your gramma,” Old Lady McGrady said. “I used to visit her once a week and take her for a walk in her wheelchair. She never said much, but her eyes lit up every time a bird chirped or a frog croaked.”
