Tilting at Windmills (Claire Lance)

by Geonn Cannon

  Roy breathed deep, making his chest look even more like a barrel, and tried not to look disappointed. "Get out," he said. "I hired you for protection during the day. I don't need you when I'm around, now do I?"

  "Guess not," Lance said. She walked toward him and stopped with their faces inches apart. She stared him straight in the eye for a long moment, letting him know she wasn't cowed. She wondered which hand he had used to slap Gwen, then decided it didn't matter. She wasn't going to do to him what she'd done to other abusers in the past. She couldn't afford to.

  Roy stared back at her, his furious brown eyes twitching slightly as he waited to see what she was going to do. She wanted to slap him, punch him in the face, do something that he would remember the next time that he raised a hand to Gwen, but it was enough to see just how thin his faade really was. He was about three punches away from sniveling on the ground like a ninety-pound weakling. She wanted to break his pinky finger. She wanted to knock him to the ground and drive her boot heel into the palm of his hand. Instead, she stepped to the side and walked past him.

  Roy followed her to the front door, unlocked it and held it open for her. "There's a place down the street..."

  "Clara's," Lance said without looking at him. "Gwen told me about it." He nodded once and waited for her to go.

  Lance stopped just inside the door and locked eyes with him again. The skin around his eyes twitched, and she knew he was trying not to flinch. She smiled and said, "Thanks for the job," then turned and walked out before he could reply. The door closed behind her and she heard the lock turn.

  The day had cooled considerably, as she knew it would, and she was grateful for her jacket. She figured Roy was probably already halfway upstairs to "say good-night" to his wife. Don't think about it, she told herself. It's not your problem. It's not your fight. Still, everything in her wanted to turn around, kick down the door, and race up the stairs to save Gwen Morse from the beating—the latest of many—she was sure to get. But that wasn't who Claire Lance was. Not anymore.

  She hoisted the bag's strap higher on her shoulder, turned back to the street, and started walking. Not her problem. Not her fight. She had already gotten too involved with the people in this damn town. She wasn't about to dig herself deeper by stepping into a domestic squabble. Just because she was an "ear-witness" to the ten-thousandth slap didn't mean she had to avenge the nine-hundred and ninety-nine that came before. Or so she told herself in order to walk away from the bar.

  Saxe was surprisingly lively after the sun went down. She heard trucks tearing down side roads, people hooting and hollering at one another. Lance ignored them, and spotted the mechanic's garage at the end of the block. She made a detour and stepped into the air conditioned paradise of the lobby. A large man with a stained uniform shirt was sitting behind the counter and glanced up as she entered. "Help ya?"

  "I called earlier about the Mustang that broke down outside of town. I wanted to drop off the keys."

  The mechanic took them and said, "Oh, okay." He straightened up and began filling out a form to identify which car the keys went to. "I'll probably get to it sometime tomorrow morning."

  "The sooner the better," Lance said as she opened the door and felt the wave of summer heat that the night hadn't yet dissipated.

  "You sure about that? Don't want to stick around and partake of Saxe's great nightlife? We're a pretty nice little town."

  Lance looked toward the bar where, for all she knew, Gwen was getting another beating. "If you say so. I'll be at the Four Roses again tomorrow if you need to get ahold of me."

  "Okay. Maybe we'll convince you of our charms before you go. Get you to stick around a little longer."

  Lance smirked without humor. "I wouldn't hold my breath."

  She left the garage and followed the sidewalk until she found a small hand-painted sign that said: Clara's Bed and Breakfast. It was a tidy, small house with a veranda wrapped around three sides. The porch lights were on, making it look like an oasis in the dark. Lance walked up the brick-lined path that led to the front door and rang the bell.

  The owner was a sweet old woman who assured Lance that no, she hadn't been asleep, and yes, she had a room and was more than happy to rent it out. She handed over the key and pointed Lance to the stairs.

  As Lance went to her room, she couldn't help but notice that Clara's was nowhere near as bad as Gwen had led her to believe. The hallways were clean, the bed looked far more comfortable than the cot, and there were no loud arguments in the next room. Definitely a step up from some of the dives she had been staying in. And what possible reason would Gwen have to lie? Lance thought ruefully. It couldn't be that she just wanted someone else in the house with her when Roy came home—a witness, or perhaps the protector that I'm supposed to be.

  She dumped her bag on the floor, disgusted with herself for leaving. But there had been no other option. She couldn't afford to get involved with something like that. She had gotten lucky with the shooting, but she knew Roy wouldn't hesitate to throw her to the wolves if she tried to step into his business. She stripped off her jacket, took off her boots, and dropped onto the bed on top of the covers. A voice at the back of her head asked, "What did you do today?" in a sleepy voice, as a ghostly hand traced across her stomach.

  "I killed a man and turned my back on a woman who needed me," she answered. The ghost withdrew, and Lance didn't blame it a bit. She told herself not to think about women who were beaten by their husbands, or how those stories always ended. But of course she did think about it, and the images followed her into her dreams.

  #

  Gwen woke the next morning before Roy, as always. She eased out of their bed and walked barefoot down the hall. She used the bathroom and took a quick shower, then stood naked in front of the vanity mirror and examined her face. She gathered her wet hair in a ponytail to keep it out of her face as she pulled her make-up to the front of the vanity. Eyes wet, she sighed and, in a well-rehearsed dance, chose the correct colors of make-up to hide the marks on her face.

  After a few minutes of careful dabbing, powdering and smudging the powders into place, she looked normal again. She turned to the left, then the right, to examine her profile. She made sure she checked the light, made sure that the bruise on her cheek was invisible from all angles, and then closed the make-up kit. She looked into the mirror again and hesitated. Through the make-up, she looked at herself, really looked, for the first time in a long time. She didn't like what she saw.

  The day before, Claire Lance had been scared after she shot Boris. Gwen had seen the gun shaking in her hand. But then, suddenly, it had just stopped. She was able to get herself under control in a matter of seconds, while Gwen had still been in shock at the end of the day. When Roy and his boys came out of the back room, guns ready and murder in their eyes, Lance hadn't flinched.

  Gwen wondered if she had ever been like that. Had she ever been as strong or confident as Lance? Had all these years trapped in the barroom beaten it out of her, or were they just two different species? God knew she had never been able to move like Lance—quick, silent, like a jungle cat stalking prey. She could still see that pool cue swinging up and around like a sword, saw Boris' pained look as he went down.

  The answer was no. She had never been like Lance. No one with even an ounce of Lance's spine would allow herself to be trapped like this.

  Gwen turned off the vanity lights and retreated into the bedroom. She dressed in a pair of jeans and a blouse made to look as if it had been patched together from old fabric swatches. She ran her hand over the material and pinched it between her thumb and forefinger. Roy didn't much like this shirt, said it felt weird and looked cheap. But it reminded her of her grandmother's quilts, the ones she made on a wooden frame that filled her entire living room. She remembered crawling under it on her hands and knees, under and over struts, the light from the window filtering in through the reds and purples and yellows. She smiled and put the shirt on.

  Dressed, she looked at
the back of her sleeping husband. The night before, he had thrown her onto the couch and slapped her twice with the hand now curled innocently next to him on the pillow. She turned away from him, forcing the memories of what had happened out of her mind. Like always. Don't dwell on it, don't keep thinking about it. Pull yourself up and move on.

  She pushed back the curtains to let in the morning light and squinted into the brightness of the new sun. Last night was the past; today was all new. A blank slate. Today Lance would be back at the bar. Her mood brightened at the thought of seeing her mysterious bodyguard again, enough so that she was able to turn and face the bedroom once more. She walked to the bed and sat on Roy's side of the mattress, put her hand in the middle of his back and rubbed. When he stirred, she said, "Good morning, sweetheart."

  He muttered, rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye, and rolled onto his back. She smiled at him, but he didn't return it. "What time is it?"

  "Nearly six."

  He reached up and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. She winced, and he said, "Cut that out." He sighed and looked at his fingers to see if any make-up had rubbed off. "Does it still hurt?"

  Of course it still hurts, she thought. But she shook her head. "I'm fine, dear.

  He sat up. "Are you going to do that again?"

  "Do...?"

  "Make a decision like that without asking me first." He moved his hand to her shoulder and squeezed roughly. She winced, but she knew he meant it as a gesture of affection. "I don't like punishing you. You know that."

  "I know," she said softly.

  He moved his head closer to her and lowered his voice. "So are you going to do it again?"

  "No, dear. Of course not."

  He released her shoulder and kissed her forehead. "Good girl." He pushed the blanket aside and climbed out of bed. He looked at her shirt with distaste. "I thought you got rid of that piece of shit."

  "I—"

  "Give it here."

  "Roy..."

  He reached down and tugged at the collar. The top button popped off. Gwen ducked her chin and twisted out of his grasp. "Okay. Okay. Wait." She unbuttoned her shirt with trembling fingers, shrugged out of it and handed it over to him. She resisted covering her breasts with her arm, knowing it would make him tease her by taking her bra as well. He balled the blouse up into a wad and tossed it into the trash. "Wear that white shirt, the one with the big collar. I like that one."

  Gwen watched him go into the bathroom and waited until he shut the door to rub her shoulder where he had been squeezing. She went to the dresser and blinked back her tears, forcing herself not to cry as she pulled out the white shirt with the big collar.

  Chapter Three

  Lance barely slept the entire night. Whenever she managed to doze off, the demons would come out to play and she was awake again within minutes. She was no stranger to sleepless nights, so she eventually got out of bed and went to the window to watch the moon rise over the peculiar little town where she found herself stranded. The ghostly face in the window quickly faded into the familiar pale features of Elaine.

  "You can't save them all."

  "I can at least try."

  "Things are different now."

  "I'm not different."

  "Yes, you are."

  "Yes. I am. I'm less."

  "Claire..."

  Lance turned away from the window and sat at the writing desk, away from reflective surfaces, hopefully deep enough into the shadows to hide from her hurt and guilt. She put her head down on the desk and, at some point, drifted into a fitful sleep.

  When she woke the next morning, she walked down the hall to the communal bathroom and took a long, cold shower. She stayed until another guest began banging at the door, but she still didn't feel as if she had washed off the heat from the day before. She wrapped a towel around herself for the walk back to the room, opened the door, and faced her angry fellow boarder. He opened his mouth to complain, but something in her eyes stopped him. She stared at him for a long moment and eventually he stepped aside to let her pass.

  Back in her room, she dressed in a pair of cargo pants and a white T-shirt under an open Oxford shirt. She examined herself in the mirror and brushed her hair. It wasn't exactly a uniform, but it was as close to a professional look as she got these days.

  She left her things in her room and walked down the street to the bar. Hadley and Ben Estevez were already there, seated at the bar. Estevez seemed poured onto his stool, whereas Hadley looked like a ruler surveying his kingdom. Roy and the kid Lance had seen the day before were playing pool. All four men turned and looked at her as she walked in. Lance ignored them as best she could and focused on Roy. "I assume I still have a job."

  "Sure, yeah," Roy said. He bent down and lined up his shot, knocked a striped ball into a colored ball and sent it careening into the pocket. The kid cursed and drummed his cue on the floor. Roy smirked. "Better luck next time, Garth."

  As Garth slunk back to the bar, Roy said, "Which one of you morons is gonna challenge me next? Garrett? Come on."

  "I'll play."

  Everyone turned to look at Lance again. She smiled and held out her hand for the cue. "Come on. Unless you're scared of a little friendly competition from a woman."

  Hadley covered his laugh by coughing into his hand. Roy glared at him and picked up the cue Garth had been using. "Use the kid's stick. Unless you think it's cursed."

  "Doesn't matter to me."

  He gathered the balls and racked them up, placing the cue ball in position. "You want to break?" she asked as he straightened.

  "Challenger shoots first," he said.

  She gripped the cue, bent down and lined up her shot. She knew that Roy was checking out her ass; it didn't matter. Soon enough he would be focused entirely on her game. She hit the cue ball perfectly and it scattered the rest of the colored balls across the green felt. One by one, they sank. Three stripes and a solid. The rest of the balls swarmed around the bed, hitting the cushions and careening in the opposite direction. Two more stripes. Lance raised her eyebrow and smiled at Roy. "Well, what do you know."

  She walked around the table and lined up her next shot. The eleven and thirteen balls — the last two she needed to sink before going after the eight ball — were on opposite ends of the table. She eyed the angles, bent over the edge of the table, and took her shot. The cue ball shot forward and hit the eleven ball. It ricocheted off the far cushion, crossed the table to the other cushion, hit at just the right angle and spun back toward the number thirteen.

  Lance stood up and leaned on her cue, watching with apparent disinterest as eleven knocked thirteen into the corner pocket and then followed it in.

  "Damn it to hell," Roy muttered.

  "At least we're not playing for money," Lance said. She eyed the eight ball and said, "Far corner pocket."

  Roy glared at the table as if it were her accomplice in this hustle. She hit the cue ball and neatly sank the eight ball into the called pocket.

  She straightened, stretched, and smiled at her new boss. "Game. Nice playing with you. Such as it was."

  Garth and Ben were both laughing; only Hadley was smart enough to hide his amusement. "Everyone gets lucky sometimes, boss. Shouldn't have let her break."

  "Now you tell me," Roy said. He hung up his cue and walked toward the office. "Get in the office, you assholes."

  "Where's Gwen?" Lance asked as they filed into the room.

  Roy stopped at the doorway and turned to her with a smirk. "Gwen's upstairs, doing the feminine thing. She'll be down in a while. You can handle things until she shows up."

  Lance watched his back until the door closed and blocked him from view. ÔFeminine thing.' Right. She went behind the bar and wondered how bruised and battered Gwen was likely to be when she finally showed up for work. Kicking Roy's ass at pool had been slightly cathartic, but now she was worried Gwen would ultimately be the one paying for it.

  While she waited for Gwen to arrive, Lance wandered b
ehind the bar and familiarized herself with the layout in the unlikely event they happened to get a customer before Gwen showed up. The gun was still where she had hidden it the day before, and the shelves were well-stocked despite the dim prospect of actual customers showing up. She was wiping down the bar — it was something she had always seen bartenders do in movies, so she figured it was better than standing around doing nothing — when Gwen came downstairs.

  Lance looked for signs of the violence she had heard the night before, but Gwen was apparently very skilled at using her make-up. Lance, however, knew what to look for. Gwen's eyelid was a little yellow at the edge, and there was a dark stain that could have been a smudge on the corner of her jaw, where the concealer wasn't quite thick enough. Offering Lance a weak smile, Gwen averted her gaze as she slipped behind the bar. Lance leaned against the bar and watched Gwen's movements to see if she was in pain. A lot of the bastards liked to hit where the bruises wouldn't show.

  Gwen turned her back to Lance, facing the wall where the mirror once hung. Lance looked at the reflection of her face. "Guess the man of the house doesn't like guests after all."

  "He..." Gwen stopped and shook her head, apparently sensing that lies wouldn't work.

  "How hurt are you?"

  Gwen looked up and met Lance's eyes in the mirror. She shrugged. "I can manage. I always do."

  Lance was about to mention battered women's shelters when the front door swung open. A man Lance hadn't seen before walked in and, rather than going to the office door, stopped at the bar and settled onto a stool. He wore a white cowboy hat, darkened with dust, and his shirt was wrinkled and sweaty. He had apparently already been up for a couple of hours. Gwen filled a glass with beer from the tap and put it down in front of him. "Usual?"