The Red Hot Fix

by T. E. Woods

  Charlotte leaned against the windowsill. “I double-majored in finance and sociology. My finance courses taught me to invest my money wisely, but it was my sociology courses that I loved. My senior year I took a course on the underrepresented. Ironically enough, my professor assigned me to a team investigating New York City prostitution. But truthfully, I didn’t consider myself a prostitute at the time. More of an escort or companion. Funny how strong denial can be, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t need to answer. He knew how easily one could break a law, a commandment, an ethic, and rationalize it.

  “That was my first exposure to what prostitution really is. Using people with total disregard for their humanity. The utter desolation the prostitutes feel. The drugs necessary to numb out.”

  She dropped her head and took a deep breath. “Not long after that, my manager called with a date. The client was new but came highly recommended. A Houston oilman in town to consult with UN committees on third-world petroleum exploration. He was looking for someone smart to accompany him to a dinner with ambassadors from four nations.” Charlotte sighed. “And he wanted her there for breakfast, too.”

  Mort’s breathing was shallow and swift. A surge of impotence engulfed him as he accepted he was powerless to prevent Charlotte’s humiliation.

  “I took the assignment. Spent the afternoon at the salon getting myself polished while I read articles on the geopolitical intricacies of African oil exports.” Her lips pursed. “I was really good at my job.”

  “Charlotte, stop.” Mort needed to spare her the anguish. He choked out a whisper. “There’s no need for this.”

  Her eyes telegraphed a determination he was sure was the source of her survival. “There’s every need, Mort. You have to know this about me.”

  Mort nodded despite his dread.

  “Dinner was fine. My oilman got his money’s worth. I charmed the ambassadors and their wives and, I must admit, enjoyed it when my date looked at me with pride. Oh, he was so handsome in his tuxedo and cowboy boots.”

  She was silent for several moments.

  “We went back to his hotel. I suggested a drink at the bar but he said he had champagne chilling in his room. He wanted to toast our success. When we got to his room and he pulled me into an embrace, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.”

  Mort’s pulse pounded a primal rhythm.

  “His grip on me was tight. I whispered I couldn’t breathe and he locked his arms tighter. I tried to twist away, certain he was unaware of his strength, but my struggle only brought a laugh.” She bit her lower lip. “I knew I was in trouble.”

  Mort grabbed the arms of his chair.

  “And so began my long, long night.” Charlotte focused on the floor, but Mort knew the scene was playing in her mind. “His first punch knocked me off my feet. He ripped my dress off in what felt like one swift swipe.” She paused. “It’s funny how the mind reacts. I remember thinking, ‘Hey, I just paid five hundred dollars for that.’ ” She shook her head.

  “After what felt like eternity, I heard the phone next to the bed ring. It sounded so far away. I learned later that was because of fluid buildup in my ears. He’d beaten me so severely my head was swelling wherever it could.” Charlotte drifted back into her silence and Mort struggled to swallow bile.

  “It was his wake-up call,” she finally said. “He’d spent the entire night beating and raping me and there he was, thanking the operator and wishing her a good morning. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. When I heard the shower running, I crawled across the room. My body burned with pain. I reached out for the phone and saw my hand. It was shaking and pocked with marks I later learned were from cigarettes. I must have passed out at some point during the attack, but now I could smell my charred skin. I saw smears of blood on the carpet and sheets. I had bruises on my thighs and legs. I knew in that instant I couldn’t call for help. I was a whore and he was the tycoon who was spending a week in a suite that cost seven thousand a night.”

  Anger pounded at the base of Mort’s spine. He felt it climb, vertebra by vertebra, until it exploded as full-blown rage at the base of his skull. “This asshole have a name?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Who he is isn’t important. I put myself in that room.” She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked. “I was able to pull myself up and limp over to the mirror. My eyes were blackened, my nose was broken, and I had blood dripping from a gash along my chin.” Her hand reached up to a thin white scar. Mort felt his core temperature rise and his fist clench. “I never found out what he used to cut me, but it took six stitches to close.”

  “How’d you get out of there?”

  Charlotte kept rocking. “I was pulling on what was left of my clothes when the shower turned off. I was terrified. He came back into the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. Said good morning as though it was the most normal thing in the world to see a bruised and bloody woman in his room. Did I want him to call down for coffee? I froze in my spot and watched him get ready for his day. He was whistling ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.’ ” She held a quivering hand against her throat. “He dressed and said he had to leave. Told me to shower and be out of the room before the maid came to make it up.” Bitterness erased her lovely features. “Then he pulled a silver money clip from his pocket, tossed it on the nightstand, and told me to take myself to a spa. ‘Get yourself back in shape,’ he said. Told me he’d be back in town in a few months and he’d ask for me special next time. When he was gone, I went to the nightstand and counted the money in the clip. It was ten thousand dollars.” Her jaw was locked. “I was a piece of merchandise. I had a price for someone to beat, rape, and torture me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I left.” She struggled to breathe. “I healed. I rested. I focused on school. When I graduated, I wanted to do whatever I could to stop the industry I’d been a part of for six years.” She offered an unsure smile. “I moved to Seattle and started CLIP.” She pushed away from her spot on the window, shuffled back, and slouched in her chair, obviously exhausted. “And there you have it, Mort. Hooker turned crusader. Now you know all my secrets.”

  A tempest roared inside him. He struggled to stay in the present. Charlotte was safe. She was here. She was a leader in the community who inspired the admiration of all whose lives she touched. He recalled the first CLIP meeting he attended. How the families of lost children clustered around Charlotte, gathering courage and hope. Larry’s words of respect for Charlotte’s organization echoed back to him. Mort knew he was sitting across from a woman who had survived the darkest of experiences and transformed it into a source of healing and strength for thousands.

  Could he imagine a day he could share with her the fact that he had once had the opportunity to bring a repeated killer to justice and had not only stepped aside, but was actively involved with maintaining the fantasy the killer was lost forever? He admired Charlotte’s trust and courage. He knew he lacked both.

  “I don’t know everything.” He pointed to the cup on his desk. “How about letting me in on the secret to this coffee?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The long drive past blossoming azaleas and rhododendrons did nothing to improve Reinhart Vogel’s mood. He’d just spent four hours forcing a smile and an upbeat attitude as vapid know-nothings from twenty different media outlets, whose only qualifications were good heads of hair and deep voices, asked him the same clichéd questions.

  “Good question, Butch.” Reinhart had acted as though it was the first time he’d been asked about the Wings’ strategy for advancing in the playoffs. “But I’m just the guy who gets to sit in the pretty box with the pretty wife and watch the game like the rest of the fans. I leave all the heavy thinking to Coach Wilkerson.”

  Just once he’d like to be interviewed by someone worthy of his time. “Tell me, Reinhart,” he imagined a sports journalist asking, “how do you find the stomach to put up with the overpaid gangsters and thugs who pass themselves off
as elite athletes in today’s world of basketball?”

  Yeah. That’s the question he’d like to answer.

  He pulled his black Mercedes into a reserved spot in front of Rainy Day headquarters. He entered the store and crossed to the back, happy to see attentive sales associates working with customers and cash registers humming. He climbed the steps and greeted Michelle. He rounded the corner and nearly ran over Felicia Fatone hurrying out of Pierce’s office.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Reinhart pulled her to a corner. “I see your face around here again, I’ll call the district attorney to let her know about your recent extortion attempt. You got that?”

  Felicia flared her green eyes, glanced down to Reinhart’s hand, and flexed her formidable biceps enough to remind him to loosen his hold. “My business is with Rainy Day. Last I checked, Pierce is in charge.”

  Reinhart tightened his grip. He wanted to slam her against the wall and break her into easily disposed-of pieces. Instead he leaned down, close enough to count every freckle dotting her rosebud nose. His whisper was tight. “I thought your stupidity had reached its limit with that fake pregnancy stunt. You trying for a new high with a power play between me and my boy?”

  The slightest smile tugged at Felicia’s lips. “You like power plays, Reinhart?” She squirmed to press her hips against his leg. “Do they make you hot?”

  Reinhart pulled back, keeping his grasp tight on her arm. He dragged her five feet, opened the door to Pierce’s office, and pulled her through before kicking it shut.

  “Bird?” Pierce alternated his attention between Reinhart and Felicia. “What’s this?”

  Reinhart tossed Felicia to the sofa. “Mind telling me what you two were talking about just now?”

  Pierce pushed clear of his desk. “Details for Chicago.” He hurried to the sofa where Felicia sat rubbing her upper arm. “Are you okay?” Pierce turned his worried face to Reinhart. “She’s going to have a bruise.”

  “Help me, Pierce.” Felicia’s eyes glistened. “You’re my witness to this manhandling.”

  “Close your mouth this instant,” Reinhart growled. “Or bruises will be the least of your concerns.”

  Pierce stepped in front of Felicia. “Calm down, Bird. What’s going on?”

  Reinhart glared at Felicia as she flashed him a seductive grin behind Pierce’s back. God, what was he thinking when he got mixed up with this truckload of crazy?

  “Felicia has been eliminated from the Rainy Day family.” Reinhart faced his stepson. “Along with any trace of her product line.”

  Pierce turned around to see the redhead pouting on the sofa. “That’s a hefty chunk of our revenue, Bird. Besides, we have contractual obligations—”

  “That end next month,” Reinhart interrupted. “There’ll be no renewal. I want every piece of her product pulled from the shelves. Everything goes to catalogue. Update the website. Anything marked with her name gets sold at ten percent its original price.” He glowered at Felicia, who sat open-jawed and mute. “And if she’s not out of here in ten seconds, I’ll put out a statement saying we’re pulling the product line due to concerns for the safety of whoever uses it.” He kept his eyes riveted on her.

  Felicia jumped to her feet. “You fucking bastard! I’ll sue! Rainy Day will be mine by the time I’m done with you.” She spun toward Pierce. Tears streamed down her face. “This is sexual harassment. Reinhart’s been forcing me to sleep with him in exchange for carrying my line. He makes me do all kinds of terrible things. Things you wouldn’t want your mother to know about. I’ve been praying for courage. I told him two days ago I couldn’t do it anymore.” She rubbed her bruised arm. “And you see his reaction.”

  Pierce shifted his gaze between them.

  “Nine … eight … seven.” Reinhart turned toward Pierce. “Get Marketing on the phone. I want that statement out tonight.”

  Pierce stood frozen.

  “Six … five … four. Pierce! Pick up the damned phone.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Felicia stood facing Reinhart.

  “Three … two … one.” Reinhart grabbed the phone and punched zero-zero. He stared at Felicia while speaking. “Michelle, get Heather and her marketing team in the conference room in five minutes, will you, please? We have a communication that needs to go out this afternoon regarding Fit with Felicia. Highest priority.”

  He hung up the phone and continued his stare.

  Felicia blinked. “Stop. Don’t. I’ll go.” She fumbled to pick up her workout bag with shaking hands.

  Reinhart held his position. “And you’ll remember my promise regarding the district attorney? Take a good look around, Felicia. This is the last time you’ll be in any Rainy Day facility.”

  Felicia’s shoulders sagged. She stepped past Reinhart and paused when she reached the door. She turned to Pierce, her face ashen. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” She looked down at the floor. “Your mother deserved better.” She gave one final glance to Reinhart. “You deal with him, Pierce. God knows I tried.” She closed the door behind her.

  Pierce raked both hands through his hair. “What the hell was that?”

  Reinhart held him off with an upraised hand. He punched zero-zero into the phone. “Me again, Michelle. Listen, I think I pulled the trigger too quickly.” He listened for a moment and laughed. “Well, you know me. Always acting fast where my customers’ safety is concerned. Call Heather and let her know the meeting’s off. Thanks.”

  He hung up, gave his stepson a sheepish grin, and settled himself onto the sofa. “That must have been hard to hear.”

  Pierce leaned against his desk. “ ‘Stunning’ is more the word. Want to fill me in?”

  Reinhart’s silence held until Pierce looked away. “We’ve got other things to discuss.” He motioned for Pierce to take a seat. “And let’s not bother your mother with this. I don’t want anything to take away her fun with the playoffs.”

  Pierce moved slowly to his desk.

  “We okay here, buddy?”

  Pierce shuffled to his seat, moved some pens around his desk, and glanced toward the phone.

  “You know what I was thinking this morning?” Reinhart leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I was thinking how long it’s been since you and I have gone fishing. Just the two of us, like in the old days. How about once the Wings’ season is over we head down to the Keys and get us some marlin? Huh? Drink our way up and down Duval Street. Smoke a few cigars. Hell, we won’t shave for a week. We’ll send Mom off to someplace fancy and tell her the men have some bonding to do.” His smile was radiant. “What do you say?”

  Pierce opened his top drawer and rearranged some papers.

  “We got a date?” Reinhart’s tone grew gentler.

  Pierce looked up and nodded. “Sure, Bird. As soon as playoffs are over.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lydia and Maizie made their way across a stretch of beach strewn with seaweed and pebbles while sea gulls squawked overhead. Their new habit was stopping for lunch after a morning in the library. Lydia brought a sack filled with sandwich makings, fruit, and candies, while Maizie played tour guide around the island. Today she was going to share her favorite spot.

  “No one knows about it but me,” she’d said when they parted company the afternoon before. “Not another human being on the whole planet Earth. So be prepared.”

  “How much farther?” Lydia said now as she stepped over a hermit crab sidling its way to a recessed pool.

  “You getting tired?” Maizie called from ten feet away. “I could carry that sack if it’s breaking your back.”

  Lydia smiled. “You’re a poet now, huh? If you think I’m letting you carry this, you’re mistaken. I’d get hungry and there’d be nothing left.”

  Maizie stopped and stuck out one sassy hip. “Maybe that would be my price for showing you this terrific place.” She started to climb a grassy dune. “If you start counting now, you’ll be there before you hit the number seventy-five.”
/>   Lydia watched her scramble up the bank. The little girl should be in school, giggling with best friends while learning state capitals or how a plant uses the sun to make food. But Gary Dunfield demanded his daughter stay separated from the wonders of youth and left her to roam the island untended. Lydia knew firsthand the appetite Maizie had for human connection and where that unfed need could lead. Right now she was all that stood between Maizie’s isolation and a destiny of becoming a wary adult, unable to trust that goodness exists in anyone or anything.

  “You’re slow as a bug stuck in mud.” Maizie scrambled to the top of the bluff and waved. “Come on!”

  Lydia jogged across the remaining stretch of sand and climbed the slope in broad steps. Maizie jumped and clapped in excitement.

  “Look behind you!”

  Lydia turned to see the wide expanse of sea decorated with low-lying islands. The cloudless sky sang so blue it urged a promise of heaven. Mount Baker was a snowy guardian in the distance. The spring breeze frothed the waves and scented the air with salt and clean.

  “Look!” Maizie pointed to whales breaching the surface. They looked like mammoth ballerinas pirouetting before punctuating their dance with a wild silver spray. Lydia and Maizie stood in silent awe as the pod moved north. When they disappeared from sight, Lydia shrugged off her pack and carried it into a high pine canopy. Wide branches reached out to intersect with neighboring trees to form a ceiling fifteen feet over their heads. A hundred years of fallen needles made a soft carpet beneath their feet. Trunks, straight as ramrods planted at twenty-foot intervals by a cosmic arborist, were the pillars of Maizie’s natural cathedral, where golden sunlight cast dancing saints amongst the shadows.

  “You’re right,” Lydia whispered. “This is a most beautiful place.”

  Maizie pulled the pack from Lydia’s hands and dragged it ahead. “I told you. Can you believe I come up here like four times a week and I never saw another person here at all? Ever? Can you believe that?”