Past Abandon

by Alice Ayden

Cora’s laptop. How easy would it have been to touch? To run his fingers across where hers had lingered. The Ausmor screensaver danced to each corner of the screen, but Oliver did not risk it. What if Johnston had already fumbled? His vinegar fingers pry at what does not belong. “He acquires only after I am finished.” Oliver does not prey on leftovers. Johnston must remember the order of things.

  Oliver thought of another who neglected to take him seriously. He smiled thinking of the round faced woman with the wispy gray hairs escaping her bun. So eager to please. She provided Oliver a place to stay when he told her a sad story of running away from an abusive home. Oliver neglected to tell her he was the abuser. One day, he arrived at her house bloodied from one of his experiments with Cora. She had fought back, and Oliver hadn’t been kind. Some of her mysterious broken bones resulted.

  The kind woman quickly grabbed her first aid box she kept underneath the kitchen sink, sat down, and meticulously tended to Oliver’s scratches. He looked at her trusting eyes and easy smile and wondered why she didn’t fear. Then she brushed the hair from his face and said, “It’s not that bad. Just an accident.” That’s when Oliver heard his own parents’ pity again.

  That woman would have loved him unconditionally even if he’d been arrested and his crimes made public. She would have camped out on the courtroom steps and brought sandwiches to the prison every visiting day. In that moment, words failed to describe his hatred for her. The most seething lava filled spew would not have contained his anger.

  Oliver never wrote what he did to her. Suffice to say, it took days, and she suffered the longest. Sometimes, when it is quiet and still, Oliver heard her pleadings.

  Shaking off his memories, Oliver wondered where Cora’s gratitude was. Who stopped Johnston’s unwanted attentions and gave him other distractions?

  Oliver realized he must have spoken out loud because Cora’s door opened without warning. Her eyes were wide with curiosity - odd she wasn’t frightened.

  It only took seconds to react. It wasn’t planned. Instinct persuaded. And then it was done.

  Chapter 17: The Boyfriend

  Maines walked into the station and saw Weever on the phone. He gave her a nod and sat down at his desk to finish the rest of his apple pastry. He gulped his coffee and savored the sugary cinnamon apples as he glanced around the precinct’s gray walls and ancient wooden desks. Most of the other detectives were out. A few uniforms answered phones and distributed notes to empty desks. The captain had long ago slammed his door and shut his blinds. Maines didn’t like to digest before, during, or after a run in with his captain.

  “Okay, you’re sure?” Weever’s fingers punched in the keyboard. “Okay...right...” Weever rolled her eyes like she was trying to wrap it up. She glanced at her sanctuary desk. A warm home away from home could be found in her colorful sticky notes, pictures of her family, a couple of stuffed animal frogs, colored pens that fit in her hand painted vase, tissues, a perfectly round gray rock she’d picked up hiking, a wolf page a day calendar, and a few inspirational sayings taped to her computer.

  “Yes, thanks Nick.” Weever swung her computer screen around to show Maines. She cupped her hand over the phone. “Jessica Suthers was sexually assaulted by two men. We got a match on one...what?” Weever listened intently. “Yes...we will. Thank you, Nick.” Weever slammed the phone down. “Brad Slader. AKA the Brad Star.”

  “Jessica’s ex?” Maines perked up. “The one her friend at the coffee shop told us about? Thought he was an urban legend.”

  “He tried to stay off the grid.” Weever handed Maines a picture.

  Maines dropped his pastry as he stared at the man with a half shaved head, multiple nose piercings, thick blue eyeliner and a sneer that could light up New York. “How old’s this guy?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Maines flinched. “He looks older than the captain. Gotta love meth. Wait a minute.” He flashed the photo to Weever. “He’s Jessica’s ex?” Maines flipped open another file, rifled through and found a picture of the beautiful Jessica. He held the photos of mug shot boy and Jessica side by side. “In what Cylonic universe are they a couple?”

  Weever shrugged. “Apparently, she was going through a phase, and he’s got priors.”

  “Course he does.”

  Weever read through the rap sheet. “A couple of assaults, B&Es, some misdemeanor pot possessions, a couple of prostitution arrests—”

  “Wait.” Maines held up the photo again. “This insect was a prostitute?”

  Weever gestured as if to say, ‘whatever.’ “Also had a coke habit and an unlawful sexual battery with a minor.”

  “Fabulous.” Maines stared down at the photo staring back at him and quickly turned it over so he wouldn’t see the guy anymore.

  “Don’t get comfy.” Weever gathered her papers together and stood up. “Got insect’s address.”

  ****

  Outside a group of rundown row houses, Maines parked the car in front of brown, dried ex grass.

  “This is his last known address. Used to live here with another ex-girlfriend.” Weever glanced at Maines. “Ready?”

  They walked up the cracked cement that bordered the murdered grass and tried to bypass greedy weeds and petrified dog droppings.

  Weever hesitated at the screen door with a huge hole in the center as if someone dove in or out. She touched it with the tips of only two fingers, and it immediately fell to the side.

  Maines laughed. “Of course.” He knocked on the door and gazed at the chipped white paint and curled up siding. He wondered how many generations of creepy crawlies considered it paradise.

  Weever stepped aside so she wouldn’t stand on a week’s worth of mail and refused to look at Maines. “Don’t even. You start in on this place, and you’ll never stop.”

  “Didn’t say anything.”

  Weever glanced at him. “I can feel it. You’re getting all balled up inside ready to have a go.”

  Maines suppressed his grin and studied the rusted porch light dangling by a few tendons. After a few dozen more knocks, movement shifted inside, and the door flung open.

  A pierced twenty something girl with multi-colored spiked hair stood in the open door and scratched at her bruised arms. “Yeah?”

  Maines noticed her fresh needle marks. “Teena Jeffries?”

  Teena glassy eyed them. “Yeah?”

  Weever flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Weever, and this is Detective—”

  “Come on.” She stepped aside so they could enter.

  They walked over empty chip bags and old Chinese takeout boxes. Maines looked down at the matted brown shaggy carpet which hadn’t seen a vacuum in twenty years. He suddenly wished he’d worn a hazmat suit.

  They were accosted with the appealing aroma of urine and marijuana which forced Weever to brace herself until the stench retreated. On a duct taped bean bag, one guy sat open mouthed and riveted by a cartoon. Maines glanced between open mouth guy, the fly infested nachos on the windowsill, and an oozing pile of moldy guacamole slowly seeping into the carpet.

  A blond dreadlocked dude in a tie died shirt and torn jeans sprawled face down on a lopsided couch missing one leg, half a side, and all the cushions. Teena sat down on a box, pulled it to a broken glass coffee table held up with old pizza boxes and continued to roll her joints.

  Maines couldn’t help but laugh. “We can see you’re really busy. We need to—”

  Teena, suddenly conscious of her stash, offered the detectives part.

  Maines shook his head without missing a beat and grabbed his stomach. “Big lunch. Anyway...” He quick glanced at Weever as if to ask ‘What the hell?’ before he continued. “We have a few questions about Brad Slader.”

  Teena started laughing like a rusty hinge.

  “What’s so funny?” cartoon guy asked.

  “The Brad Star,” Teena said finishing her roll. “I’m really into the guy, you know?” Suddenly Teena’s eyes filled with tears. “Is that wrong?”


  Weever shrugged as if she gave a rat’s tiny ass.

  “I mean, he’s like a really cool guy. No, I mean fer real.” Teena paused to lick the joint into place. “And he’s smart. And into all that cool stuff like pottery and machetes and hot dogs.” Teena jumped up and looked around. “You hear that?”

  Maines listened for a few moments. “Only the sound of my career careening into—”

  “Go on, Teena.” Weever flashed a cease and desist glare to her partner.

  Teena shook her head quickly and swatted something in front of her. A few pieces of purplish hair fell into her face. She screamed.

  “The Brad Star!” cartoon guy blurted. “I get it.” He started what could only be described as a wounded giggle, fell out of the duct taped bean bag, hit the carpet, and continued laughing.

  “Yeah.” Teena looked around and pointed to the box she’d been sitting on. “He made that.”

  Maines studied the ordinary box and couldn’t see what needed to be ‘made.’ “Do you know where Mr. Arts and Crafts is now?”

  Cartoon guy finally composed himself and joined the conversation. “No man, I kinda threw his worthless ass out. Cause you know after he drinks he gets kinda like scary hyena aggressive.” Cartoon guy demonstrated with a few drunken half-assed karate moves by jerking his arms this way and that. “And his eyes are all like bloody and shit like a jackal. One time when I was really stoned, I saw this program about something called a Wendigo. You think he’s one of those?” Cartoon guy dug into his jean’s pockets and pulled out a piece of paper with a few crayons. He dropped to the floor and started drawing.

  Weever handed Teena her card. “If you hear from Brad.”

  Teena glanced into each corner of the room. “You think there’s like weird energy that can, you know, grow itself into something evil? Like one of those fern pets?”

  Maines didn’t know how to answer.

  Cartoon guy lurched up and handed Maines the napkin.

  Maines, reluctant to touch anything, finally grabbed one end. “What’s this?” He studied the drawing of a very small man with a huge blue head and large grey eyes with red bolts shooting out of them.

  “That’s what the Brad Star looks like.” Cartoon guy grinned as if he would include the drawing on his resume. “When he’s on the shit. So you’ll recognize him in his Wendigo form.”

  Weever glanced at the drawing and nodded. “That’ll definitely help.”

  Maines followed Weever through the pathway they’d cleared of debris when they first stepped in and were out the door as fast as they could. He took his first deep breath.

  Weever sniffed her clothes. “We’re going to smell like them all day.”

  Maines took a few more deep breaths. “Shouldn’t there be a quality check at birth?”

  The front door flung back open, and cartoon guy ran out to meet them. He wanted to say something, but he had to catch his breath first. “It’s a long way out here, man. So, check it. I got this wicked ass craving for cheese and peanut butter. You melt the cheese and mix in the PB and use it as a dip for pizza or graham crackers and shit. You ever have that?”

  Maines and Weever stared at him without answering.

  “So I went in the kitchen cause the micro in my room is toasted and wham! Dude jumps me.”

  “Brad Slader?” Maines asked.

  Cartoon guy nodded.

  Maines took out his gun and raced into the house with Weever behind him.

  Cartoon guy watched them. “But I got the munchies, man!”

  Maines looked around the kitchen and checked the back door: locked.

  Weever found Teena crying in the living room. “You okay? Where is he?”

  Teena, with mascara streaming down her cheeks, looked up at Weever. “He said my hair sucked.”

  Weever ignored Teena and noticed the dreadlocked guy still passed out on the sofa snoring. One of the drapes blew in the breeze. “This where he went out?”

  Teena nodded.

  “Maines, he went out the side!” As she screamed it, she glimpsed Brad running past the side of the house being chased by Maines. Weever flew over the living room debris and was out the door past cartoon guy still standing in the dead yard.

  “Wow man!” Cartoon guy leapt out of her way. “Isn’t there like a speed limit?”

  Maines stopped his chase as soon as he saw Weever. “You go. I’ll call it in.” He ran to the car and watched Weever catapult over garbage cans and parked cars. Weever was used to running the FBI obstacle course without letting anything distract her, so Maines knew she wasn’t about to let their prime suspect - a barefooted Brad with dirty, torn jeans and an oversized, eye stinging red and pink flowered Hawaiian shirt - slip away.

  “Help!” Brad screamed to anyone who would listen. “They’re after me. They’re zombies, man!” Barefoot Brad ran down the middle of the street towards the busy cross street. He dashed into an alley for a shortcut.

  Weever glimpsed his gun tucked into the back of his jeans, and she couldn’t risk a hostage situation. She raced into the alley. With Brad only a few dozen yards in front of her, Weever’s eyes darted back and forth. “Brad Slader. Stop. Police.”

  “Screw you, man.” Slader yelled back. “I ain’t going back.”

  Weever poured on the speed. Inches from him, she reached out for his Hawaiian shirt.

  He jolted out of her grasp and ran the opposite way barely missing Maines’ car. He leapt over the hood and reached for a fire escape.

  Maines jumped out of the car and watched Slader take two stairs at a time in a mad dash race to the top. “Seriously?”

  Weever didn’t hesitate. She reached for the fire escape. She grimaced when her hand tore on a jagged piece of metal but didn’t take her focus off Brad. “Don’t stop in one of the apartments.”

  Slader hesitated at several windows but made it all the way to the sixth floor roof.

  “Prick’s not getting away. I’ll go around the front. Don’t approach until backup’s arrived.” Maines jumped back in his car and sped out of the alley.

  Weever moved faster and faster. “Up. Over. Up. Over,” she said moving up the stairs and around to the next set. At the roof, Weever paused. She took out her gun and peeked over the edge.

  At the other end, about thirty feet away, Slader contemplated his options.

  Weever paused long enough to catch her breath and wipe the blood from her hand. “Brad Slader.”

  “How’d you chase me like that, man? No one outruns me when I’m jacked.”

  “Just back away from the edge.”

  Slader glanced over the side.

  “That’s a long way down, Brad. You don’t want to do that. My partner’s down there.”

  Down below, Maines shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted towards the roof. Brad Slader looked down at him.

  Maines waved. “Hey, Brad. Love the shirt.” Maines shrugged at a few uniformed police. “Mine’s backordered.”

  Weever heard footsteps quickly making their way up the fire escape. Two uniformed officers made it to the roof and trained their guns on Brad.

  “We just want to talk with you, Brad.” Weever inched closer cutting off Brad’s escape. “We just have a few questions.”

  Brad backed up as far as he could. “It’s about Jess, isn’t it?”

  “We just need to talk.”

  “I didn’t mean to mess her like that.” Brad swayed back and forth with his hands covering his head. “Is she mad?”

  Weever holstered her gun. “Brad, step back from the edge. We’ll talk about your options.”

  Brad looked at Weever and fidgeted with his arms. He waved something away from his face. “I’m not going back.”

  Weever glanced at the officers. “Look at me, Brad. Focus on me. Tell me about Jessica.”

  He calmed himself for a few seconds. “I’m sorry.” Brad reached for his gun.

  With lightning reflexes, Weever shot Brad once in the shoulder before he could raise his gun. She rushed
to Slader before he fell backwards, but she wasn’t fast enough.

  Slader fell six stories and slammed into the pavement in front of Maines. A uniformed police officer rushed to Slader to check for a pulse. He shook his head.

  Maines sighed, but he knew it wasn’t that easy. He’d never heard of Slader. There was no way he was connected with Emily or Cora. “It’s gotta be somebody else.”

  Chapter 18: Relax

  Natalie clutched the red journal tight until the spine snapped in protest. “What about the new one? A runaway like Rachel? A student? A secretary?” Natalie wondered about working in an office answering emails and going to meetings. “My own desk. A business card.”

  No one in Natalie’s family ever had a business card. Maybe she’d be the exception. “Color? Not traditional white. Too dull. And the font?” Natalie remembered a guy wandering through an office supply store muttering, ‘Font matters.’

  “That wasn’t me.” She closed her eyes - easier to concentrate without the cellar’s shadows assaulting her. And, if she focused on something else, the sticky metallic whiff didn’t distract. “That was the other one: Amber. She was the one obsessed. Business cards. Fonts. Colors. The letters had to be empressed or expressed or something.”

  Natalie smacked her hand against her forehead, and her thoughts jumbled like scrabble pieces thrown against a wall. She couldn’t risk a panic attack. She slowly inhaled. One…two...three. Four...five...six. She held the oxygen tight and silently counted backwards from six to one as the oxygen escaped. Her heart slowed to her methodic breathing. At one time, Natalie barely survived three counts, but her lungs held out longer after she gave up cigarettes.

  “Amber wanted a business card. Sally applied to art school in Paris. Marie had a sick grandmother in Mexico she’d never seen. And Rachel?” Natalie shrugged, lifted her dirty pink sweatshirt, and traced the C section scar with her rough fingers. “I had Grace. I’m studying to be a nurse. My mom’s an architect. I told Amber about my mom’s business cards. Amber was going to open her own salon.” Natalie ran her fingers through the dark blond strands struggling to get the last of the midnight out of its system. “She said she could fix my hair.”